


I know that you got daddy issues (and I do too)

by feyrelay



Series: DIEU (Daddy Issues Extended Universe) [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ARG, Age Difference, Alternate Reality Game, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Canon-Typical Violence, Clues Everywhere, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, IronDad right up until the moment it isn't, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mysterio is His Own Warning, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Playlist, Plot Twists, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Spider-Man: Homecoming Spoilers, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unreliable Narrator, did I mention slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: The one where Peter's blue balls save the world.Because, yeah? That meandering, blooming thing between him and Mr. Stark? That relationship that continues to be maddeningly legal, platonic, and above-board, but still somehow haunts Peter's wildest wet-dreams?That might just be the key to Strange's endgame.---CNTW details inside and individual chapters have warnings as well.Canon Divergent midway through Spider-Man: Homecoming. Will cover Infinity War Part 1 and vaguely incorporate some elements of Spider-Man: Far From Home. Technically an Endgame fixit, but was written in 2017 and 2018 for the most part, before Endgame. I'm just psychic, is all.**Some people have been asking if this is IronDad or unrequited. Hell NO. The smut starts in chapter 28 and doesn't stop till the end. But just because that's when they start banging doesn't mean the rest of it ain't romantic AF. I promise. And the ending is happy despite all the preceding angst; there's at least one wedding. Trust me, you guys.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Content: This fic definitely earns its Explicit rating, but Peter will be a consenting adult (under US federal law at age 18) before anything happens between him and Tony, at least within the reality of the fic. Peter's dreams and fantasies are fair game until then. No gross grooming, lots of pining and catharsis. Plotty flangst with eventual happy endings for all.
> 
> CNTW = canon typical violence, torture by bad guys, dream underage sex (none IRL), dream dubcon/noncon (none IRL), canonical character death via Thanos Snap (will be resurrected)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prologue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for references to depression and Peter's poor mental state
> 
> The song for this fic as a whole is obviously Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood, but I also have created a mega-playlist of all the songs for each chapter (1 per chapter). 
> 
> This chapter, it's Cold Water by Damien Rice.
> 
> Follow along with the songs: https://open.spotify.com/user/1urx036e5iqb0ioukr2bj8yih/playlist/0DthrZ8qQjQgEBSyu54Opb?si=U0p0LYScQCG-5nFBLnfdIg

“I just thought that I could work really hard and he could. He would… you know,” Peter forces out.

“I know, baby,” soothes Aunt May.

He sinks into a seat, and it feels like sinking in the water did. He feels the cloth clinging to him again, both outside his body, trapping him in the brine, and inside his throat somehow too, and behind his eyes as if the saltwater is already inside him. Peter wonders if he would even be able to float, now, much less swim. It feels like there’s water all around him, garbling Aunt May’s soothing words, as if he’ll never breathe again. (It feels like maybe that’s about what he deserves.)

Peter presses his face into May’s stomach and chokes everything down, face burning with shame and anger and stress. Her hand comes down over his shoulder blade, comforting, holding him together. She knows what he’s trying to say, and he feels a burst of love for her. (She won’t make him say it, not out loud.) 

He grits out an apology, genuinely wanting to spill everything to her, knowing she deserves his confidence. The only problem is he knows that he doesn’t deserve the  _ relief _ of that. He remembers how good it felt when Ned found out about Spider-Man, and hates himself too much to let himself feel that good again just now.

Peter mumbles and okays his way through the rest of the conversation, showers off the garbage smell, and collapses in bed, but not before dealing with the tourist tee and ridiculous bottoms Mr. Stark had sent him home in. 

May tells him to throw them away, but Peter tucks the clothes into a paper bag from the Thai place that delivers, one that is mercifully free of stray sauce or grease. He makes sure May won’t find the bag, and conceals the clothes, in his closet next to the little box that holds Ben’s watch. 

When Mr. Stark had turned him in the direction of home and told Peter to “start walking, kid”… well, the seams at both shoulders of the stupid tee shirt were the last thing Stark had touched.

Peter doesn’t cry but he doesn’t sleep either, at least not until the street is so quiet he knows it must be at least three A.M. but no later than five. He continues staring into the darkness of the closet until the black fills up his entire vision. 

Later, Pete jerks awake without knowing he had even nodded off, shoulders burning.

\---

Peter gets into a routine and sleeps a bit more, eats a bit more. (Talks a bit less.)

It’s easier in some ways, now that he’s not patrolling, not lying so much. Homecoming is coming up but, for some reason, he finds himself unafraid of asking Liz out. He’s seriously considering it, probing his feelings and not finding the nervousness he expected. He’s not exactly excited either, and can’t figure out why, but lets it go.

Even though his spider senses usually dial everything up to a crisp eleven, it all feels like a watery six anymore. His breath comes evenly, uninhibited, and that’s all well and good but Peter feels like there’s still mucky, metallic bay water in his ears. There’s a taste constantly on his tongue like a bad penny, and he’s distantly alarmed by that until he realizes he’s been cannibalizing the inside of his own cheek, vampiric.

Adults other than May have Charlie Brown-style voices and Peter becomes good at recognizing who’s talking to him by their shoes. He longs for the sight of designer loafers or polished dress shoes (or, ideally, if this is Peter’s too-detailed fantasy of a casually-dressed version of Mr. Stark, it’d have to be custom red-and-gold Chucks). Peter stares at Liz’s purple pair as he asks her to the dance, likes the way the color pops with her white toe caps, but correspondingly hates it next to his dirty, nondescript sneakers.

He gets home and is still thinking of how he’ll look next to her, and how she had said she picked out a red dress because she heard it’s his favorite color. He hopes she’ll wear heels and be taller than him, teeter a bit maybe and steady herself with both hands, one on each of Peter’s shoulders. (Hand covers bruise.)

It’s the first flare of desire Peter’s felt in a week: thinking of a statuesque Liz, skin shining under fairy lights, in a red dress picked just for him; sadly, it gutters out when he hears May is already home, and the feeling is replaced by panic as he finally starts to wonder what he is going to wear to this dance. He can’t screw this up. (Not this, too.) 

The panic ratchets up a notch when Peter thinks of May going through his closet to help him find something.

He knows he should feel cruel when he insists May open up Ben’s closet, rather than Peter’s, to find him a suit, doubly so when his aunt digs through and lingers over the empty hanger for Ben’s best, favorite suit. It was the one they buried him in.

All Peter feels is relief, his grief and guilt oddly absent. (That’s not the only thing missing…)

After May goes to bed, Peter digs out Ben’s watch to wear to the dance and, after a moment of consideration, the takeout bag with his “I Survived… “ tee shirt and the ugly, pink sleep pants. He fully intends to move them to a new hiding spot under his bed, but figures that’s the first place May checks for porn and drugs every time her worry outweighs her adherence to the ‘cool aunt’ code. 

Instead, the formerly neatly-folded clothing ends up squished between his headboard and the wall, where Peter can stretch above his head, reach under the lip of the headboard where it cuts off an inch below his mattress’s height, and run fingertips along the fabric of the cheap, tourist-y shirt. His other arm is thrown across his eyes to keep them from staring at the bottom of the top bunk too long, or, more especially, at the old Stark Expo 2010 poster that still makes its home there.

\---

The day of the homecoming dance, in last-period Spanish class, some hippie substitute tries to earn brownie points and demonstrate her  ∼ coolness by letting them use their phones for #educationalpurposes. She tells them to work on three ‘expressions of gratitude’ and text them in Spanish to 3 different people. The catch is that they aren’t allowed to text any other student that’s not currently in that Spanish class because the sub doesn’t want to disrupt another teacher’s lesson somewhere else in the school. MJ, Liz, and Ned are therefore out (taking Mandarin, French, and Latin, respectively), and other than them Peter only has May, the Thai restaurant, and Happy still in his phone. (Lame, Parker, real lame.)

Pete’s in a generally great mood, though, so he tells May that he’s grateful for all the support she gives him every day, and especially for the dancing lessons. Peter feels stupid but texts the delivery guy anyway, thanking him for always being prompt with their food and says hi from May, hoping he’s not creating a stalker for her as he does so.

Finally, he debates just settling for 2 out of 3 and taking the hit to his grade, but Peter didn’t maintain a near-perfect GPA by letting things slide so he breathes deep and texts Happy, in Spanish, what basically amounts to:  _ Tell Mr. Stark thank you for everything. For saving my life at the Expo with the Hammer Drones when I was a kid getting between him and his job. I guess I never did grow up and out of that. I won't bother either of you again, this is just something I had to do. I didn’t have anyone else to contact. _

He wants to explain about the assignment, but remembers how much Happy hates what he calls Peter’s ‘radioactive word vomit’, so he cuts it off there. It’s not until after he hits send that Peter realizes he screwed up the conjugation of the verb ‘to grow up’ and wrote the future tense instead of the past tense. (Oh, well.)

The substitute, Señora Weeks, looks over his work, which he copied down on notebook paper before sending the texts, and she confirms for him he said that he never  _ will _ grow up -- as in he never got a chance to -- not that he never  _ did _ grow up -- as in he never made the choice to. Peter shrugs, figuring it amounts to the basically the same thing and is distracted when May texts him a heart-eyes emoji followed by a gif of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. The dude from the Thai place just texts back, “Who is this???” and Happy, of course, leaves him on read.

(Yeah, what else is new?)

\---

But, then:

When Peter gets home, ready to get dressed for the dance, Mr. Stark is in his bedroom. The place is ransacked, drawers out, bed pulled away from the wall, and his stuff is all over the floor. May’s not home yet, but Peter knows she’ll be there soon to help him with his tie and to bring home a corsage for Liz.

Stark looks up from where he’s sitting, curled awkwardly in suit and tie, on the bottom bunk. One hand is in his pocket, the other clenched in the bedspread and (oh shit) he’s holding the "I Survived My Trip to NYC" Shirt and the printed bottoms, having pulled them from where they were tucked behind the headboard. The cheap clothes are crumpled in Mr. Stark’s lap, whose face is stormy.

“What the fuck, kid? You’re gonna try to kill yourself?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any artistic talent, PLEASE consider drawing for this fic because I would DIE and probably give you my firstborn. You can contact me for absolutely any purpose whatsoever, even just to chat, at feyrelayfiction@gmail.com.
> 
> I'm also on Pillowfort now, much more so than Tumblr, at: https://www.pillowfort.social/feyrelay/


	2. You ask me what I'm thinking about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The confrontation continues, and blooms. Another shorter chapter while we ramp up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is: Should I Stay or Should I Go - The Clash
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

_“What the fuck, kid? You’re gonna try to kill yourself?" Tony Stark inquires, with the barely-there illusion of calm._

“What? Uh… No?!” Peter sputters, and wonders why it sounds like a question leaving his mouth.

Stark flicks his StarkPhone from an interior pocket of his suit jacket, and holds it up like it’s a smoking gun.

“FRIDAY, play back this afternoon’s text from _Señor_ Parker, via Happy Hogan, _en inglés, por favor_.”

Peter gets a sharp thrill of… something (fear?) at hearing Mr. Stark challenge him like this and speaking Spanish to boot. That thrill is quickly replaced with a hint of humor, listening to FRIDAY’s melodic Irish tones mold around Happy’s brusque, big city words. He had obviously been in a hurry, probably using the voice-to-text feature.

“Hey boss, I dunno but I think the kid is trying to send you a coded message or something. Either that or a cartel kidnapped him, you know I don’t know how to do the fancy translate thing, but you might want to check it out. It says…hold on… lemme just, copy and paste, stupid phone,” and here FRIDAY _beeps_ and says, “Begin translation from Spanish… _Tell Mr. Stark thank you for everything. For saving my life at the Expo with the Hammer Drones when I was a kid getting between him and his job. I guess I will never grow up and out of that. I won't bother either of you again, this is just something I had to do. I didn’t have anyone else to contact.”_

Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow, waiting for Peter to speak.

“It-… it’s not what it sounds like, it was just some stupid assignment for Spanish class. We had to show gratitude or whatever,” Peter mutters.

“Next time just send a fruit basket,” Mr. Stark starts, clearly still shaken, “…or ‘whatever’.” He finishes with a mocking, little ‘air quotes’ gesture, repeating Peter’s words back to him, and that erases any humor Pete was finding in the situation.

“Look you don’t believe me, Mr. Stark? That’s fine! If a suicidal gesture is what it takes to get your attention, then it says more about _your_ mental health than it says about mine,” Peter explodes and tosses his unlocked phone at Tony, reflexes a little too quick, watching the phone hit the bed next to Tony’s thigh with a solid _thwack_ and a bounce.

“I didn’t have anyone else to text for the assignment,” he continues, building up steam now, “... since my school friends weren’t allowed, so, you know ‘whatever’,” he gestures.

Mr. Stark makes a little noise at that, but Peter barrels on.

“Like I could have predicted Happy would pick this text out of the hundreds I’ve sent you, _begging_ for a scrap of attention, to actually pass on. Now, I have a homecoming dance to prepare for, so unless you think I’m not good enough to participate in that either… or are planning to super-ground me, _Iron Dad,_  then just… get out.”

Peter then proceeds to slams his way into the bathroom and starts the shower, shutting out the second small, shocked sound Stark makes, back in his bedroom. He wouldn’t have even heard it without spidey hearing. Just before he steps into the heated water, he hears the tinny, electronic voice of a drone intone, “Clutter Cleanup Protocol begun,” followed by the sound of his bunk bed being shoved back into place.

Peter questions, ( _Do you ever clean up your own damn mess???),_ and steps under the spray, ready to drown.

\---

By the time Peter gets out of the shower, Mr. Stark is gone and Aunt May is home, having just finished laying out his outfit for him, corsage for Liz laying gently to one side of the desk as well. His room is spotless.

“Do some cleaning earlier, hon?” May asks. He nods, tired already.

“The dance isn’t for a while yet, and I don’t want to start sweating in my suit, so I’m gonna lay down for a power nap. Just half an hour.”

May looks worried but makes an affirmative noise, telling him, “I’ll put the pizza box in the oven on low, you can’t go to these dances without eating something,” before she shuts his door behind her.

Peter sets an alarm on his phone and lays down under the blankets, noting how good the newly clean sheets feel against his bare skin. He wouldn’t normally sleep naked, in deference to May, but doesn’t want to waste time putting PJs on just to change into his suit in a few minutes anyway. He stretches out on his stomach so his wet hair won’t dry with a flat spot on the back, slotting his arms under his pillow and extending his reach to curl fingers lightly against the NYC shirt, back in its spot wedged between the headboard and wall.

He shifts a bit, getting comfortable, and promptly conks out so quickly he doesn’t stop to wonder how a single cleanup drone was able to stretch a fresh and clean fitted sheet over the corners of his mattress, especially where it butts up directly against the wall.

He also doesn’t realize that he could have just quickly struck a deal with any of his classmates within the Spanish class, to text each other and get the assignment over with.

\---

When Peter wakes, he actually feels better than he has in a while, like things are turned back up to, if not eleven, then at least eight or nine again. He silences the alarm on his phone and queues up some music to get him even more pumped while he wolfs down his pizza and May searches for a Windsor knot tutorial. It takes longer than they expect to get it down, and he rushes out the door to get to Liz’s on time, delicate corsage in hand.

Just before he walks up the path to her front door, he gets a text from someone saved in contacts under a combination of the male welder emoji + sunglasses emoji. All it says is:

**Knock her dead.**

But it’s followed up swiftly with more messages saying:

****not literally**

and,

**What’s this girl’s name?**

**For safety.**

as well as a final, maddening text reading:

****unless it’s a guy**

**I didn’t mean to assume.**

 

Peter knocks on the door and quickly texts back a terse:

 

**Liz Toomes, now leave me alone plz**

He then sets to silencing his phone for the night, while he waits for someone to answer the door.

The annoyance drains from his face, for all the wrong reasons, when someone finally does.

\---

He has a hard time convincing Mr. Stark he doesn’t have a death wish after that one.

The only reason he doesn’t have Peter committed, in the end, is that Karen’s files confirm Peter never learned the arms dealer’s name on the ferry. Well that, and Iron Man showed up just in time to watch the last millisecond of Spider-Man muscling his way out from under tons of concrete using not much more than his fierce will to live.

They’d gone after Toomes together, making short work of him. The only real moment of danger came when Peter tried to use the combo mini-EMP splitter webs in his upgraded suit (which Iron Man had shoved at him as soon as he’d cleared the garage rubble).

Peter meant to ground the Vulture by frying his wings, (“It’s super-effective, Mr. Stark!”), but Iron Man ended up catching some friendly fire and his suit had stuttered to a halt, much like Vulture’s right wing. This sent the villain, and his razor-sharp wingspan, into a spiral drop that would have sliced through the free-falling suit and Tony himself if not for Peter’s webshot yanking Iron Man out of the way and to safety. A second try fried the other wing and they were able to take down the Vulture for good.

Afterwards, atop the Cyclone roller coaster and awaiting the authorities, Peter expects to have it out about his recklessness potentially costing lives again. He certainly isn’t expecting any extra credit for saving Mr. Stark when it was his EMP shot that endangered him in the first place.

“Good job, kid.”

“What?” comes Peter’s, frankly, incredulous response. “I whammied your suit!”

“I said good job. Nice work,” Tony starts again, mask flipping up so he can fix Peter with a firm gaze. “Look, I’ve realized some stuff tonight. After that, ah, fiasco in your room. Being a hero isn’t about not making mistakes or always doing or saying the right thing. It’s about balancing your raw powers with an instinct for humanity, which fundamentally introduces a potential for error.”

Mud cakes Peter’s spider suit and he’s sore from his cowlick to his pinky toe, so he only feels like, hmmm, thirty percent of a troll when he says, _“En inglés, Señor?”_

Tony huffs a laugh and points fake-menacingly at Peter’s small, burgeoning grin. “You have to recognize that the power imbalance between you and people that don’t have your abilities and resources means that, yeah, you have a proportionally greater responsibility to handle stuff and protect them, but you also er- you also…” he tries.

“You also have a proportionally greater potential to fuck up?” Peter finishes, not joking at all, now.

“Yeah,” Tony says.

“Yeah,” says Peter.

\---

When Peter gets home, having showered the mud and concrete dust off, rather quickly, back at the empty high school gym, May hugs him. She seems proud for a moment before lifting an eyebrow at the whiff of strange shampoo. Her eyes flick quickly to the ‘special drawer’ at the bottom level of the narrow entryway dresser, the one she keeps stocked with no-questions-asked condoms, breath mints, and single packets of lube.

He’d blushed profusely after she’d added that last item, fairly recently. Peter’s stomach had swooped before she’d informed him primly that straight couples use lube too. At that, he’d gone candy-apple, Iron Man red, all the way to his ears.

However, May says nothing now besides, “You still have half your share of pizza left, if you’re hungry.” She watches him open the fridge with a fond smile on her face, and gnaws at her thumbnail in a way that almost telepathically implants the question in his brain: _How was it?!_

He doesn’t know what to say so he just lies, “It was great!” and then gentles it with the truth. “I don’t think Liz and I are right for each other, though.”

It’s a miscalculation, however, because Peter can see his aunt’s face shift into disappointment as she arrives at the conclusion that he’s pulling a fuck-and-run on the poor girl.

“No! No, not like that, it’s just. Uh…” he flounders, thinking of Mr. Stark’s hard-won laugh, earlier, in the face of Pete’s ribbing, and blurts, “I have a crush on a man, a guy… a, uh, man-guy, boy-type person.”

May’s eyebrows raise so high that Peter can actually see them crest the ridge of her large-framed glasses.

“Ohhh-kay, sweetie. Well, I guess you never know until you try...” she says, and she hugs him again.

He escapes into his room and out of his uncle’s borrowed ( _inherited_ ) suit, struggling into a pair of grey sweatpants and collapsing on his bottom bunk, face flaming. His arms are too sore to sleep on his stomach like he had done earlier, and that’s why he sees it, taped to the bottom surface of the top bunk frame. The same old, familiar Expo poster, now newly signed: _XO, Iron Dad._

(Fuck.)


	3. I tell you that I'm thinking about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue heavy, our duo works some things out together. Then Peter works something out on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for underage (solo) masturbation
> 
> The song for this chapter is: How Soon Is Now? - Snake River Conspiracy (The Smiths Cover)
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

After a brief encounter with a tearful Liz, who is moving out west with her mother to escape the publicity of her dad’s trial ( _and any intimidation from weapons buyers that fear he’ll roll over on them,_  Peter’s mind unhelpfully adds), life begins to return to something approximating normality.

He does his homework the same way he always has -- at school during class to keep his mind from wandering while the other kids catch up. He avoids Michelle’s scrutiny as best as he can (playing dead, basically) and tries to teach Ned the subtle art of keeping a gosh-darned secret (“loose lips squash arachnids”), _come on._

I mean, it’s not that Peter doesn’t trust May or Michelle, he tells himself, but it’s more like he’s not willing to put his aunt through an ounce more stress than necessary, and Michelle, well. He doesn’t need a lecture on how he’s engaging in ‘my-own-backyardism’ or something for only patrolling the Queens area. He doesn’t want to have to explain that he can’t stand the amount of water he has to cross to get to the Bronx, and some visually-impaired adrenaline junkie is covering Hell’s Kitchen and the rest of Manhattan anyway. Brooklyn, well… he thinks of Captain America’s face and the way Mr. Stark’s hands shook the one time Peter had said the Winter Soldier’s arm was bad-ass, and. Yeah. (Fuck Brooklyn.)

If Peter had thought getting his suit back would solve all his problems, well. He felt like that was his own stupidity.

In reality, having Karen to talk to whenever he needs to hear a calming, feminine voice just makes it easier to hold his Aunt May at arms-length.

Being able to patrol again, albeit under the cover of darkness since he has still officially ‘lost’ the Stark Internship, makes it easy to dodge Ned’s attempts to make plans. With Liz gone and schoolwork buckling down post-homecoming, even Flash has been leaving him well enough alone.

Half the time, Peter loves it, the solitude of working, helping people anonymously, taking down five bad guys all by his lonesome. It’s like the pleasant buzz of white noise, a radio turned down but not off in his mind, and the other half of the time, well. He has a place he can go.

\---

It’s true, Mr. Stark spends most of his time upstate these days, and everything of value has been removed from Stark Tower. However, after Vulture’s short-lived hijacking of the moving plane, the buyers pulled out of the real estate agreement. The dark, distantly-shot footage of Iron Man and Spider-Man battling a giant mechanical bird-man had made the 11 o’clock news that night, their forms backlit by the lights of the amusement park and the voltage coming off of Vulture’s wings. The commercial real estate agent has wasted no time pulling out of the deal before midnight, realizing that any buyer that moved into Stark Tower might become the target of a myriad of criminals with expired information on Iron Man’s whereabouts.

Needless to say, the Stark Industries real estate asset manager was fired on the spot, for not using a standard closing agreement that specified _end of business_ on the relevant date as the deadline for either party to pull out of the sale, rather than leaving it open to interpretation that any notice by 11:59pm would also suffice.

And so, Stark Tower stands silent and empty, keeping vigil over Manhattan, and currently Peter Parker is swinging stealthily onto a vacant balcony, on his way to keep vigil with it.

\---

The second night that Peter visits the tower, he’s keyed up and fresh off what would have been termed a ‘screaming match’ about his sneaking out (if it weren’t for the paper-thin walls of the apartment and May’s desire to be neighborly). The sliding glass door that sits off to one side of the balcony slides open with a _click_ and a _hiss._

“Peter, incoming call from Metal Shades.”

“What, Karen? Are we being hacked?”

“My apologies, Peter, that is how my verbal process parsed the contact’s name from your phone, which contains only pictoral tokens, or emojis. Would you like me to decline the call?”

Peter relaxes, recognizing who must have remote-accessed the balcony door. “No, put Mr. Stark through, Karen.”

_Beep._

“Hey kid, how’s it hanging? Can’t sleep?”

“I had a screaming match with May… ok, well, more of a whisper war. Thin walls. It starts to feel like they’re closing in. How’d you know I was here?”

“Uh, it’s _my_ state-of-the-art tower you’re climbing like a bad weed. You’re really asking?” Tony Stark laughs.

“No,” Peter sighs. “I just thought… I thought you were done with this place.” ( _I thought you were done with me,_ he doesn’t say _._ )

“No can do, Underoos. It’s still my property until some developer gets up the gumption to risk getting some of my old mail.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, anyway. No need for you to be freezing your egg sac off on that balcony, just to get some peace and quiet. I’ve instructed FRIDAY to allow you _and only you_ access to the interior, so don’t be bringing girls here or anything.”

“I, uh-… I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Peter stutters, and thinking back to Mr. Stark’s oddly-inclusive text the night of the dance, he adds, “Not any guys either.”

“Good,” Stark grunts, and Pete hears him shifting in his seat, over the line. “So, what’s on your mind tonight?”

“Oh, uh, nothing really, I- shit!” Peter exclaims, having just smashed his shin into the sharp corner of the ultra-modern sofa, unexpectedly.

“You alright? I thought you saved such profanities for life-altering moments.” Mr. Stark is clearly thinking back to that night on top of the Cyclone.

“Yeah, I just thought you moved everything out. This couch just leapt into my path to trip me, and it was totally on purpose,” Peter grouses as he rubs his shin bone, before catching up to what Stark is saying. “What?! Mr. Stark, I’m a 15-year-old, not, m’not-… I’m not _Captain America_! I’m allowed to swear.”

Tony gives the sort of full-bodied laugh that booms out and then whittles down to a chuckle, the sound getting smaller and smaller like the sound of a dropped basketball bouncing until it finally just rolls away.

“Thanks, kid, I needed that. But, all joking aside, I did really want to talk to you the next time you came around to the tower and had some privacy. I left the couch since it was custom-built for the odd room size, didn’t seem right to take it. Lay down, we need to do a little head-shrinking on you. I’ll be Freud, since you’re clearly the ‘Jung-er’ of us.”

Peter huffs, desperate not to dignify that pun with a response. “One, you therapizing someone, that’s like the blind leading the blind. Two, _I’m fine,_  I told you. Three, don’t you have better things to do?”

“Listen, Pete, there’s nothing more important than this. I know you got angry at me the other night, but we have to talk about that _loco_ text in detail.”

“What?! I told you, that was an assignment-” he cuts in.

“No, zip it, it’s my turn to talk now, ok?” Mr. Stark spits, and then audibly calms himself, breathing deep before continuing. “Look, maybe you’re fine. Maybe you’re telling the truth about that, or maybe not. I know it was just an assignment for your Spanish class, various contemporaneous message logs I was able to dig up from your classmates’ phones all corroborate that.” Peter gasps at that before Stark continues. ( _You hacked my Spanish class?_ he thinks, but doesn’t say.)

“You want to act like you’re grown up, you wanna be the big man now?” Stark asks, oblivious to Peter’s train of thought. “Fine. But that means owning up to your emotions. Once you’re an adult, people aren’t going to coax and nudge and try to figure out if something is bothering you. Unless you’re family or sleeping with them, most people simply. Do not. Care.”

“Listen, sir-,” Peter breathes, before being cut off again.

“No, _you_ listen, kid. I’m here now. And I care. I always cared, but I wasn’t paying enough attention before. That’s on me. Not answering my call when you were on the ferry, that’s on you. But maybe you would have answered the call if I hadn’t placed Happy like a bulletproof-glass-case-of-emotion between us. So…”

“Mr. Stark, it’s really okay, you were right, I’m not like you… I’ll never be like you.”

The line is quiet for a moment.

“Didn’t you listen to what I said, that night that I took the suit, Parker?” he asks.

“Yeah, that everyone made it out, no thanks to me…” Peter trails off, sad.

“No. I don’t want you to be like me. I want you to be better, that’s what I said. Now why would I want that? Why would I believe that? Why would I say that to you, unless I _knew_ you have the potential to be more than I can ever be? Hmmm?” Stark needles.

Peter can feel his eyes getting wet and hopes fervently that his voice won’t crack. “I don’t know, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m a lot of things, Pete. I’m an Avenger, sure. A scientist, often. Even an okay mentor, sometimes, I think. But I’m also an alcoholic, a hedonist, an addict, and an eccentric. I’m not an easy man to be around; Pepper’s told me that more than enough times. My friend, that’s Commander Rhodes to you, I’ve let him down more times than I can count despite respecting him more than either of you could possibly know. And, finally, I’m man enough to admit that that text shocked and scared me more than the dick with the metal wings ever-”

“Sir,” Peter interrupts, slightly overwhelmed, “I would never actually do it. I wouldn’t leave you and May and Ned like that. I didn’t even mean to imply it, I just conjugated a verb wrong, my Spanish teacher said so. But even if it was real, like honestly? I don’t know what could even kill me, anymore… With my healing factor and reflexes and metabolism, honestly, it would be really hard to do.”

A pause.

Now it’s Tony’s voice that sounds a bit wet around the edges, as he sighs, “Pete… I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but all I’m hearing is you’ve given this some thought, and that’s not okay, kid, that’s really not o-fucking-kay.”

“Sorry. I just-”

“No, don’t apologize, I didn’t mean to sound harsh… I know it’s been rough. It’s… confusing for me too. Look, on the one hand I think I was too hard on you, about the ferry. The FBI agents were clearly outmatched weapons-wise, whether you were there or not. I’m sure if we had a way to look into the different possible futures… that ferry was toast regardless of who was there to confront the baddies. On the other hand, maybe I _didn’t_ come down hard enough, because you still don’t seem to get why I was so angry. You just don’t seem to get it,” Tony rambles, clearly frustrated, but still sounding more sad than angry.

Peter, more and more confused, chimes in with, “I’m sorry, sir, please explain it to me, I want to under-”

“Stop apologizing! God, let me just get through this.”

“Sorry, I mean, uh, okay.”

There’s a short, but pregnant pause.

“Kid. I was angry because I was scared. Remember what I said, that if you die, it’s basically on me because I recruited you. It’d be my fault. And now I find out, I saved your life once? At the Expo, back, has to have been _x_ years since then, now? Wherein x equals _almost half your life_ ago… that means more than you think it does. It means I’m even more responsible for you, and it means that you are, you’re just like me, only purer I suppose. You want to run toward the danger, like me. And that, Pete, that scares me shitless. Because ‘like me’ isn’t what I’d ever have chosen for you, or for anyone, really.”

“Mr. Stark, let me have a turn, okay, because this is most definitely not your fault,” Peter says, and waits for permission, trying to be good.

“I’m listening,” Stark mutters, “even though it really, really is.”

Peter takes a deep breath.

“All due respect, sir, why do you think I even begged to be at the Expo, in the first place? Why I had a toy Iron Man helmet? This is who I’ve always been. The attack didn’t change that, and the bite didn’t change that. Not to be a douche, but your ego needs some deflating. Give some credit to the people that raised me, sir, to my Uncle Ben and Aunt May, and to my… give some credit to my, my parents.”

Peter fights not to cry, because this conversation is becoming _way_ too emotional to be had between two dudes, but he carries on.

“Yeah, maybe I wasn’t supposed to be bitten by some mutant spider, but if I wasn’t Spider-Man? I’d still want to be a research scientist, an inventor, an engineer. If that path wasn’t open to me, if the spider bite had dropped my IQ instead of my body fat percentage? I’d still want to help people, be an EMT, or a firefighter, or like, _anything_ if it helps. And, you know, it’s not like those people aren’t smart too just because they aren’t up in the ivory science tower, so fine, even if I became too numb-skulled for any kind of traditional job, I’d still be a fucking candy striper. I’d sort donations at the domestic violence shelter, pet sad dogs at the humane society, you name it; if I was paraplegic, I’d play video games on camera all day and donate the stream revenue to charity. If I was quadriplegic, I’d save up for a mouth-based controller. You’re not responsible for me wanting to be a hero, sir, as much as I respect you; it’s just that’s who I’ve always wanted to be. You’re just helping me to do it better, Mr. Stark. Safer.”

Tony doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the silence sounds like he’s trying to take Peter’s words in, trying to take them at face value. He takes a moment and seems to turn what he wants to say over in his mind before responding.

“Peter, I’m sorry this conversation got you all worked up, and I’m sorry it seems to have gotten away from both of us. I know we’re both tired, and you have to know I didn’t mean to sound like I was taking credit for the man you’re becoming. You’re right, that would be _way_ too arrogant of me. But let me tell you something, something hard-fought and hard-won and something even someone as smart as Pepper Potts has not been able to make me understand, not fully, until pretty much this very moment.”

“Okayyy…uh, go ahead?” Pete allows, guts burning with curiosity.

Tony breathes again, before stating bluntly, “I’m a powerful man, Peter. I have a lot of money, more money than most people can even begin to picture in their mind’s eye. I was privileged to receive a great education that helped manifest the gifts that were already there thanks to my parents’ blessed chromosomes, and I inherited the corporate infrastructure I needed to make my dreams into realities. I was too damn lucky, in short. And the truth is, I’ll never be able to pay that back into the world, not when there are so many people going to bed hungry, cold, dirty, illiterate, and worst of all, without hope. I’m not smart enough to fix all of those problems, and I’m not dumb enough to turn a blind eye to them either. It’s paralyzing, frankly. In hindsight, it’s part of what’s driven me to drink and get high, and to crash into the beds of strangers. It’s what’s made me who I am after it took about forty years for me to finally realize it.”

Mr. Stark must stop, for just a moment, and cough. It sounds like it comes from deep, near where the arc reactor was once housed near his sternum.

But he continues, “Pete, I know you want to be your own man. I get it, but you have to let me carry this. You can’t be you, this brilliant, _amazing,_  broke kid from Queens and expect me not to want to make up for the fact that I’m me, the rich, self-indulgent, middle-aged _a-hole_ from Manhattan. You know, the power imbalance between you and your friend Ned is a lot less than the power imbalance between you and me. Yeah, I know you could crush me physically, into a fine red-and-gold mist, but I’m talking about resources and life experience here. So think about it, this is a chance for empathy here, Pete-y; how would you feel if Ned didn’t want to leave the crime fighting to you, wouldn’t let you carry that burden for him? If he tried to squeeze himself into some Spanx and fight his own battles? Even though you and I both know that beating up the bad-guys is the only thing keeping the shards of _your_ guilt away from _your_ heart?”

( _That would fucking suck,_  Peter thinks.)

Mr. Stark is still speaking. “So yes, I need to trust you, yes I need to listen to you when you try to tell me about arms dealers, no I can’t stop you from wanting to be a hero. But you gotta let me carry some of the adult burden, okay? I need the pain. I need the strain of it. I need to cherish the idea of you staying safe and sound and hold the hope that one day you’ll make it to my age with less wrinkles and less scars; I need to hold that hope in my heart until the day I go as grey and white as _my_ old man did, before he died, because that’s all I’ve got to offer the world. I can’t fix it, can’t save it, not all the way, but I have to bear witness to you, to your life, because you could do it. You and your friends could fix this messed up rock we’re whirling around on. So, you have to let me watch out for you. Would you permit me that?”

It takes a minute or five for Peter to be able to speak again after a monologue like that, but…

“Yeah,” Peter breathes, heart in his throat.

“Okay, kid.”

“Okay.”

\---

After the magic spell of that night is broken, Peter doesn’t climb Stark Tower for a while, not ready to embark on another conversation like that without taking a breather. He makes up with May, re-purposing some of Tony’s wisdom and letting her know that he understands why she needs to be let in on things, why she needs him to let her worry about him, and that he’ll work on it. He tells her he loves her and requests she try to trust him, try to remember that he’d never do drugs or hurt anyone or sneak out for no good reason, especially after Ben.

And, if the sky is a bit bluer than it had been, dinner a bit tastier, then who has to know?

But it’s not like everything is magically all better, either. He still can’t seem to make himself be interested in Legos right now, and he _loves_ Legos. School is school, blah, and Peter hasn’t jerked off successfully in three weeks, not for lack of trying. He’s starting to get a little twitchy.

On patrol, a duo of criminals forces him to choose between one victim’s purse and another victim’s car, which was shifted into gear before Spider-Man snatched the carjacker out and webbed him up with his purse-nabbing accomplice. They’re all on a hill and the mid-sized, tan hatchback starts to roll, picking up speed quickly. Unfortunately, the very flexible carjacker uses his knife to cut free the purse-nabber, expecting some reciprocity, and the purse-nabber grabs the fallen designer bag and bolts around the corner, where Spider-Man can’t track him without losing his grip on the hatchback. He gets away, though the carjacker immediately names the runner as some low-level Québecois mob dummy, Émile Bisbée, out of pure spite. Peter apologizes to the woman whose purse has just vanished, explaining he couldn’t let the hatchback run wild and potentially crash into someone. She huffs, red face clashing horribly with her head-to-toe powder blue outfit, telling him that the stolen purse costs more than the car is worth and to mind his own business next time.

“Yeah, okay lady, have a nice day,” is all he says, making sure the dude with the hatchback is calling the police to come get the, now knifeless, francophone carjacker.

“Hmmph,” she sniffs, already walking away, asking if the carjacking victim will be off the phone soon, and would he _pretty please_ call her an Uber when he is?

At that moment, all heads turn towards the _wooshing_ sound of thrusters.

“Lose something, Ms. Late Stage Capitalism?” Iron Man quips, one hand holding Chanel and one hand holding Bisbée, as he alights, somewhat unbalanced, on the sidewalk.

“Oh, thank you, Iron Man! My whole life is in that bag! How can I repay your services?” she asks, grabbing at the light blue leather purse as a pretext to press her ample breasts against Iron Man’s chest plate.

“No need for any of that, ma’am, besides, your, uh, outfit clashes with mine. Ready to roll, Spider-Man? We good here?” he asks, nodding at the carjacking victim as Peter finishes webbing up the purse-thief to his former accomplice, much more securely this time.

“Yeah,” Peter responds and they take off, FRIDAY’s map of the city’s cameras leading them closer to the Manhattan-adjacent portion of Queens, to the unsurveilled roof of a condo so they can both de-suit or at least de-mask. They sit and lean against the back of a sign that adorns the roof’s edge, hidden in its late afternoon shadow, the light golden. Several floors below them, some apartment-dweller, probably somebody’s _nonna,_  is listening to Dean Martin. The music player is cranked and perched on a window sill. Pete knows the tune from one of Ned’s video games, _Fallout: New Vegas._

It’s nice here.

“Were you following me?”

“No! Uh, well, not really, it’s just that FRIDAY pointed out that you were going on patrol straight from school, and I know that’s not your norm so I blasted down from upstate to make sure you weren’t taking on a full-fledged mission, or under duress, or something. It took a while, so I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t anything serious.”

Oh. That’s… well. Peter feels warm, even as they hide in the chill of the shade.

“No, I just promised May. She says she won’t ask where I’m going as long as I’m not sneaking out in the dead of night, come home to eat dinner with her, and keep up with my homework. So now, I go after school and actually there’s like a ton of crime even though it’s still light out. People target people leaving work, office women in heels, blue collar men that are too worn out to fight, stuff like that,” Peter explains.

“Oh, good thinking, kid. How’s that going, with May?”

“I, uh, stole some of your lines about, like, her carrying the burden of worrying for me, and she seemed to really appreciate the mature angle,” Peter admits.

“I’m good for some things,” Stark plays it off, “… just never thought winning speeches would be one of ‘em.”

“That’s rich, Mr. Stark,” Peter fires back, putting air quotes around the word ‘rich’ and taking a page out of the Tony Stark playbook, using humor to diffuse the tension of what he really wants to talk about: the other night.

“How so, Parker?” his mentor fires back.

“You were giving me full on Obama vibes the other night, talking about holding hope in your heart and how I was the future, and all that. Stark 2020? I’d vote for you.”

“You can’t vote, kiddo,” Mr. Stark returns, amused.

“I’ll be able to by then, or are you too tired to do a simple year-counting equation?” Peter needles right back.

“Must be getting senile. I guess that rules out my presidential bid for 2036,” comes the wry reply.

“Wait,” Peter questions, laughing, “why are you pushing back the timeline? You’d be practically ancient by then.”

“Well, I can’t run without you as my veep, am I wrong? 2036 it is, then you’ll be old enough,” Tony smiles at him, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

“Oh. Sounds good, Mr. Stark.”

 _Ain’t that a kick in the head,_ Peter thinks privately, following along with the song wafting up from below.

\---

Peter greets Aunt May with shawarma that night for dinner, at Mr. Stark’s insistence. They pig out on the well-seasoned chicken, first, and then the box of six delicately sandwiched French macarons, that Mr. Stark had bought for them from the shawarma joint’s owner’s wife, an in-house baker. It’s October 11th, National Coming Out Day, so the brightly colored macarons are lined up in the long, skinny box in rainbow order. Peter eats from the left, enjoying red velvet, Dreamsicle, and limoncello flavored cookies that crack minutely and then dissolve slowly in his mouth, while May braves the more eccentric mint mojito, blue cotton candy, and lavender-flavored varieties.

It’s a wonderful dinner and dessert, eaten sitting in front of more than one episode of _House of Cards,_  but the show’s subject matter makes him think of the joking conversation he had had with his mentor. The decadent taste of red velvet is still on his tongue and he has to beg off to bed, avoiding May’s grasp for a hug. He cites fatigue and a test tomorrow, but not before he tosses the macaron box into the trash, palming the decorative silver ribbon that had adorned the baked sweets.

It’s printed with glittering, gold ♂ symbols that interlock. It’s the stupidest, gayest ribbon he’s ever seen, and it’s still in his hand when he comes, three minutes later, thinking of Mr. Stark’s smile, his elbow in Peter’s ribs, and his warm, low voice saying, “then you’ll be old enough,” and, “good thinking, kid”.

That's not the worst part, though. The worst part is he wipes his hand off on the NYC shirt, so yeah. Peter thinks this is probably a thing, now. ( _Christ._ )


	4. Whatever you're thinking about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice, long interlude of flangst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for underage solo masturbation, discussion of anxiety/panic attacks, and a water scald/burn
> 
> The song for this chapter is: I Hear Noises (Demo Version) - Tegan and Sara
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

After that first time, gaudy ribbon in hand, Peter wants to do it again. And again. And again.

Unfortunately, his stupidly loyal, Hufflepuff self finds that he isn’t quite willing to risk the newly-repaired relationship with May, or the teetering one with Ned, just so he can jerk off five times a day. So what if the low, smoldering fire in his belly, felt most sharply just before he goes off, is the only thing that clears his near-perpetual brain fog? So what if the spike to his heart rate is the only thing that makes food taste like anything but ash inside his mouth? Peter’s seen that movie _Choke,_ okay? He knows sex addiction is a messed up row to hoe, and he doesn’t think he’s anywhere near that. Peter’s just a teenager that has discovered his sexuality, and how to turn it inward and private. He’s also figured out how to keep it deliciously and utterly divorced from his social standing, in one fell swoop.

Everything is so different now, he feels like he should be dividing his life into before-Liz and after-Liz. It’s absurd, because, Peter would have thought being bitten by a radioactive spider that gave him powers -- or flying to Germany to fight amongst heroes -- would be much further up the list of watershed moments in his life, but no. 

He had really cared about Liz, had wanted to know what she liked and what she wanted for the future, had wanted to protect her and support her aspirations. So much of his time had been spent waiting for her to see him seeing her, for her to notice just what kind of effect she had had on him. He’d thought, if she would just acknowledge him, everything would fall into place.

But now, oh now, it was different. He didn’t need to stalk Mr. Stark, didn’t need to be noticed, and in fact, hoped to keep his inappropriate desires undisclosed, preferably forever. This was something entirely of Peter’s own making, which made it deliciously easy to _keep control of_. And because of their age difference, and Stark’s being straight, it would always remain an idea, a desire of the mind, and nothing more. He’d never have to talk about it. He’d never have a chance to screw it all up. He could keep this thing, this one thing, perfectly safe.

Peter barely saw his so-called mentor, now that the older man was in the know as to Peter’s patrolling schedule and safely ensconced in heterosexual bliss with Pepper, upstate. They talked, sure, whenever Pete made the solitary climb up the still-empty Tower, just for some quiet reflection time, but Mr. Stark seemed to sense the reason Peter came to the tower and frequently left him to it. To be sure, none of their brief conversations came close to rivaling the intensity of that first one, when Tony had given him permission to enter via the abandoned balcony.

Usually, Peter told Mr. Stark that he was fine and just coming to the tower for some good, old-fashioned silence, and they left it at that.

It was in that silence that he now sat -- on the traitorous, shin-slaying sofa -- cross-legged and practicing his deep-breathing. He reflects on the past few months, and how things have changed. 

Things with May have improved drastically, now that she can count on him to see her side of things, show up for dinner, and stay put through the night. Peter is seriously considering telling her about Spider-Man, maybe at Christmas, which is imminent, or as a New Year’s resolution. His grades are better than ever because school is something he can do on autopilot, though he enjoys the extra free time now that they’ve been let out for winter break. Patrolling right after school has become a blessing too, because it means he has an hour or so to warm up before the city police department scrambles for shift change, always a tense time of day, and before rush hour starts which is generally best spent swinging from building to building, breaking up road rage fights and discouraging would-be thieves and snatchers who were hungry for a gridlocked target. It’s nice that he’s also giving bored office workers something to marvel at out of their painfully stationary car windows. He feels like he’s really helping people. It’s great.

The only problem is, despite the fact that everything is going well, it still feels like there’s about three inches of glass between Peter and the rest of the world. He doesn’t feel the connection he once felt with his friends, or even with the people he helps out. No one buys him any more churros, because it’s all business, all day and always the same. He gets up, does a few chores and gets ready for school, and then afterward he patrols. He gets home, lets the adrenaline of whatever situation it was that day drain from his body (primarily through his dick), then finishes his shower before a late dinner. 

Peter follows that up with TV and little talks with May, finishing touches to homework over the phone with Ned, if he needs help, and maybe the meme of the day to send to MJ. Before bed, there’s usually one last orgasm wrung out into the tourist tee-shirt that Tony had procured for him. He wears the Hello Kitty bottoms to bed now, too, masculinity be damned. Peter sleeps like the dead, then rises like Lazarus every morning, intent on doing it all again.

Most nights, Peter doesn’t dream, but when he does it’s a terrifying jumble:

He’s pressed under the glass that, by day, separates him from those he loves, an arachnid impaled, pinned, _trapped_ in some collector’s shadowbox. The display box changes, morphs into - what was it Mr. Stark had said about Happy? - a glass case of emotion, which looks a lot like the box of a payphone, pocket door and all. However, even dream-Peter has never seen a payphone box in real life, so that morphs into the TARDIS from _Doctor Who,_  except it’s painted red and gold, not blue and white, and he’s careening through time and space before landing badly, crashing.

When Peter finally, gasping, lifts the concrete and drywall and re-bar rubble, the Vulture is long gone from the parking garage, but it turns out Peter hasn’t actually traveled magically in time, he’s only traveled in time in the way that we all do, the way that we all are, minute-by-minute, constantly and inexorably.

And there’s shrapnel migrating towards his heart, and he’s dying in two ways, one way very quickly and very really, and the other way metaphorically in a Sylvia Plath, ‘we’re all dying’ kind of way, like the quote from that really old movie, _Fight Club_ … Peter is not his fucking khakis, and he turns toward the sound of thrusters, leaving the carjacking victim and the bitch in baby blue on the sidewalk.

He turns and Iron Man’s not there, it’s just a noose made of web-like rope, swinging in the breeze. It falls to the ground and turns into a snake, one that is choking on forbidden fruit, apple-shaped lump lodged whole in its throat. Then the ropelike snake changes into a doughy, braided plait of bread, unready, unrisen, and unbaked. Pepper Potts pulls out a huge kitchen knife and cleaves the braided dough in half to pull out the whole candied apple that was hiding within.

Flour and powdered sugar are sprinkling onto the rooftop around him, like snow, and he turns back around to see Mr. Stark in a kitschy kitchen apron, one that says, “I Survived My Trip to NYC” above a drawing of a yellow taxi that has macarons for tires. He wipes his hands on it, before he approaches Peter in the dream, slowly and deliberately, a twinkle in his eye. He holds out the red velvet sandwich cookie and tells Peter to close his eyes. The delicate dessert crumbles to ash as soon as Mr. Stark places it on his tongue, and his eyes pop open in the dream, mouth still chasing Mr. Stark’s fingers, and he sees that Tony himself is also crumbling away to ash.

He looks up at dream-Peter, clutching at his chest where a burnt out, triangular reactor has scorched his chest plate, brokenly whispering now…

“I’m sorry.”

Pepper cries in the background, hands pressed into her eyelids, both _blinded_ and  _blinding,_  as the light glints off her diamond engagement ring.

If Peter wakes up crying, chest heaving, having conked out in the middle of his meditation, alone and disoriented on the abandoned couch in Stark Tower, then, fine. Who’s there to see it?

\---

Christmas Day dawns bright and early. It’s a New York winter, which means there’s no snow and people are happy about that fact, knowing that they’ve dodged the danger of snow-plows pushing dirty brown snow banks up to the sidewalk in drifts that will melt and re-freeze, seemingly harder than diamonds and taller by several heads than the taxpayers whose money it had cost to plow them.

It’s just Peter and May today, though Pete did make sure to text Ned and MJ through their group chat. MJ sends back a gif from _How the Grinch Stole Christmas,_  near-immediately, with a wry caption that just says, “fuck off, I’m taking advantage of the holiday to try and seize the means of production”. Ned sends a photo of himself holding a box of new Legos, and holy shit, it’s the new Star Wars: Battle on Takodana set. Pete simply replies, “what a score, dude” and is about to see when Ned wants to hang out again, when there’s a knock at the door.

Peter’s heart barely has a chance to start pounding before May opens the door to see a courier standing there. May signs for two boxes and a packet, and the courier beats a hasty retreat, throwing the phrase, “Happy Holidays from Stark Industries!” over his shoulder. The thick envelope is addressed to ‘Aunt Bae’ in a flowing script, the end of the ‘e’ dropping down into a rather nice doodle of a piece of Christmas mistletoe flanked by holly.

May busies herself with the letter, first and foremost, scoffing at the name on the front, and sits down to read it. She hands off the other two boxes to Peter and for a moment, when he clocks the size of the gifts, Peter is worried that Mr. Stark might have gotten him a watch. He panics, not sure if he’ll have the heart to tell Stark that he intends to wear Uncle Ben’s watch from the day he feels man enough to put it on for good until the day he dies.

It turns out to be a micro-earbud nestled generously in foam, completely wireless. It is plain and peach-toned, made to blend in with his skin, like a modern hearing aid. Peter can just make out the tiny silver letters printed along the bevel of the disc. They say: KAREN 2.0. On the inside of the lid it says, “Wear it after school too, as a redundancy, and it’ll pair up and charge wirelessly while its functions are otherwise handled by similar devices.” ( _He means the suit,_  Peter thinks. _Bitchin’._ )

The other box is too big to be a watch and is long and rather skinny. _Oh my god, what if it’s a training dildo,_ is what flashes through Peter’s mind before he remembers, oh wait, Peter is the one sexualizing Mr. Stark without his knowledge or consent, not the other way around. In fact, the most provocative thing Stark has ever done is buy him some rainbow cookies on the least sexual LGBT holiday of the year, and wait, _now that you mention it…_

Peter pulls the holly-patterned satin ribbon off and lifts the lid of the more rectangular box to find 6 multicolored macarons in tissue paper. The underside of the lid lists their flavors and descriptions in that same flowing script:

_Iron Man – a red-velvet cookie with cream cheese buttercream filling and gold leaf ‘mask’_

_War Machine – a coffee-flavored biscuit with hazelnut crème sandwiched in, and edible silver glitter detailing_

_Black Widow – a burnt red, salted caramel flavored cookie, with almond-flavored cream, and a white powdered sugar hourglass design_

_Black Panther – dark chocolate macaron and a black cherry compôte inside, with isomalt shard ‘claws’_

_Vision – red raspberry with lemon-ginger custard topped with crystallized ginger ‘stone’_

_Spider-Man – sweet strawberry and blueberry swirl cookie, with soft maple syrup sugarwork webbing inside and a black maple candy spider decal_

Looking over his shoulder, May gives a low whistle and says, “Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘sugar daddy’, doesn’t it?”

Peter almost drops the whole thing on the floor, giving a strangled, “What?”, before she explains.

May holds up the letter and reads,

“Mrs. Parker,

I know you probably hate my guts, but I’ve been in contact with Midtown and it looks like Peter is doing a lot better with time management. I heard he’s been maintaining good attendance at his afterschool club this term. His grades have never been higher and are the highest in the class. My team went there looking for more chemistry lab interns, and came away only hearing his name, so if you give the thumb’s up for it, Stark Industries would be honored to have him back.

Our wires got crossed last time, but we at Stark Industries would like to work more collaboratively in the future to make sure Peter can bring his gifts to bear without disrupting your routine there at home. I thought I’d send the letter personally, since we kind of know each other, instead of sending you boilerplate on Christmas.

Our proposal is that he spends three weekends a month at the Stark Industries testing facility dorms, upstate, and participate in the trials for a new bonding compound we’re working on. Transportation is not an issue. This way Peter can continue his extracurricular activities in preparation for the college applications process and have extra spending money for that fourth weekend, his family weekend, every month.

Because the normal flat payment for all Stark Industries internships is 4 years of college education at an institution of choice, and CEO Potts tells me our employee fulfilment charter specifies weekend work be billed at time and a half, regardless of hours worked per week, Peter’s extra weekend pay would be equal to 50% of his work hours times the cost of 1 hour of class time at… I believe Peter is hoping for MIT?

The calculation is complex, but I assure you, Peter’s research into the chemical bonding process, tensile strength of natural insect secretions, and fluid-to-solid projectile physics is priceless. Our chemical innovations team would be lucky to have him.

Please have Peter let me know when both of you have come to a decision regarding this matter. Also, don’t let him eat all six cookies, they’re for you too.

Merry Christmas,

Tony Stark.”

May finishes reading the letter, glancing up every so often to smirk at the way Peter’s eyes get more and more bugged out.

“It’s about time Rocket Man realized what a genius you are, baby. Are you alright?” May asks kindly.

“Yeah, I just… wow. That’s… a lot.”

“It _is_ a lot, but I know you can handle it. I won’t lie, I’ve been worried about how… detached… you’ve seemed since your little friend Liz moved away, but I see you’ve really been buckling down, and obviously Midtown and Stark’s people see it too.”

“Okay. I appreciate you believing in me, Aunt May, but there’s something we need to talk about first. It’s only fair,” Peter starts, feeling his heart rate spike again.

“What is it, honey? Do you not want to work for Mr. Stark? Is it too stressful?”

“No, it’s…” Peter tries, gently picking up the red and blue dessert from the box, feeling how delicately-made the webby sugarwork inside really is. “It’s just that, I wanted to tell you, this after school stuff, it’s…” he trails off, unsure, macaron delicately balanced in his left palm. He steadies himself against the table holding their gifts from Mr. Stark, with his right.

May stares, eyes flicking from the cookie to his rapidly reddening face.

He sees the moment it dawns on her.

“No.”

“Yes,” Peter counters, wincing.

“No fucking way! Peter Parker, so help me god…!” she gasps.

He places the cookie back in the box, picking up the other gift to show to her. “This is Karen,” he explains, “she’s something Mr. Stark designed to help keep me safe, as Spider-Man. She tells me how to do things, how to get places, how to protect myself. She’s an AI.”

“Peter, this is all just too-”

“She used to only be in my suit,” he adds, ducking into his room to grab the aforementioned item, knowing May needs to see in order to believe. “I think Mr. Stark wants me to keep her on me all the time though; that’s what the ear-piece is for.”

When he comes back in the room, May is still rooted to the spot, waiting. Peter sees her eyes widen, taking in the suit and flicking back to the letter on the table, the cookies, and finally, his face.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, “…you’re a hero.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say-”

“You’re also a big, damn idiot and grounded until Valentine’s Day, but you’re a hero, sweetie.”

And, then, she bursts into tears. “Ben! Oh my god, Ben! He, he, he would be s-s-sooo proud-d-d-d of you, oh my god. Honey, you have no idea…”

And that’s how _that_ goes for the rest of the night. He figures he might as well come clean about everything all at once and tells her that he’s like 85% sure that he’s closer to gay than straight, statuesque and smart women of color in his life notwithstanding.

May’s only response is to eat the Black Widow cookie so he can have the guys all to himself.

All in all, it works out alright even if the emotional disclosure of the day tires Peter until he is straight-up, slap-worn-out. While he still has the presence of mind, he pulls on his Hello Kitty sleep pants and composes a text:

“Sir? She said yes.”

\---

It’s not until a week later, on New Year’s Eve, that he realizes no ordinary baker, no matter how ambitious, is going to know _exactly_ who was on either side during the Accords conflict. They’re not gonna know that Vision is partial to ginger, or Commander Rhodes loves Nutella, both of which are things Mr. Stark has mentioned to him in passing over the months of their acquaintance. Peter himself has never told MJ or Ned how much he loves maple- and berry-flavored stuff, because he irrationally feels they are such ‘white bread’ things to like. Whatever.

Peter’s half-asleep, trying to get as much rest as possible before he goes back to school in a few days, but sits upright, still in a daze, as soon as the realization forms in his mind. He feels the top of his hair, a bit grown out now and sticking up from sleep, where it brushes the glossy Expo poster above him. He imagines the lines of Mr. Stark’s inky black autograph bleeding onto his scalp and his neck, down his back, and curling around his biceps.

“Karen, call Mr. Stark, please,” he breathes.

“Video, or audio-only, Peter?” she says, cheerfully.

Uh… “Audio, in case he’s got company?” Peter decides.

The line rings twice.

“Hey kid, this isn’t a drunk dial, is it?” is what he gets in greeting.

“Projecting yourself onto me again, Mr. Stark?” he barks back, awareness coming back quickly now.

“Ouch, I call party foul on that one, you little shit,” Stark quips, mostly good-naturedly.

“I’m not at a party; I’m grounded for life,” Peter discloses.

“Hold on,” and there’s some scuffling on Stark’s end, before he hears a door shut and the background din of music and people laughing cuts down considerably. “What did you do this time?”

“Who says I _did_ something?” Peter asks, mostly rhetorically.

“…”

“Okay, so I told Aunt May about my extracurricular identity,” he explains. “I know you were trying to be subtle in the letter and all, but I felt it was only fair to clue her in. She needed all the facts if she was going to truly give me the stamp of approval on re-joining the internship program.”

“Let me get this straight,” Stark cuts in, sounding surprised. “You receive a letter, on Christmas. It’s detailing how you’re about to be invited three weekends a month to the Avengers compound, to play a _much_ more on-the-nose version of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 with me, and possibly combat training with Natasha, now that I think of it. Plus, you’re staring down the barrel of having your full ride to MIT paid for and a significant amount of ‘hazard’ pay put in your pocket… and you pin all your hopes and dreams on your ‘cool aunt’, May, truly _being_ cool with how you’ve been hiding your radioactive super-strength and enhanced abilities for months? Let’s not forget, all the while sneaking out to fight the same kind of thugs that basically ruined both of your lives? Does that cover it?”

“…Yeah, really stupid of me now that you mention it…” Peter allows, and then trails off. He’s embarrassed he hadn’t thought about how badly it could go.

“No, Peter, I’m. I’m not just proud of you; I’m in awe of the level of maturity that takes. You’re a really good boy,” Stark says, firm, before amending, “… no, a good _man_.”

( _Oh._ )

Peter’s fingers rub over the bedspread that covers his thighs, as he sits cross-legged. He manages a breathy, “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. How’s baby-Karen doing? Charging well?”

“Yeah, no problems there, and…” Peter remembers, “Wait just a hot second, Mr. Stark, that’s the whole reason I called you, about the gift that you sent!”

Stark sounds confused when he cuts in, “-something wrong with her, does she not blend in well enough for school? I don’t want you accused of cheating. If anyone gives you any crap, you text me, and then go straight to Disabled Student Services, tell ‘em she’s a hearing aid. There’s a joke in there somewhere about her being your virtual assistant… aid/aide, I don’t know, you’ll figure it out…”

“No, Mr. Stark-” Peter tries.

“Normally, it’d be really shitty to fake a hearing impairment, but the truth is you need her to deal with your condition, one that makes you different to other people, so I wouldn’t feel too bad…” the other man trails off.

“Sir! Shut up for a second, okay!?”

There’s a dangerous pause. Peter touches his bare abdomen, feeling his breath hitch at the sudden tension.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say those words to me, _punk,_ ” says Mr. Stark, in a voice that not only makes clear that Peter is, indeed, on thin ice but also makes a thrill charge up Peter’s spine.

“I was talking about the cookies!” Peter exclaims, in a rush. A deep breath is heard on the line, and Pete touches two fingertips to his own sternum where a flush has settled.

His mentor’s response is careful, waiting. “Oh?”

“You made them? Or… I don’t think you bought them?” Pete asks in a smaller voice, hanging on the response and tap-tap-tapping on his collarbone. ( _Once for no, twice for yes please,_ he thinks to himself.)

“I made them,” the reply comes; Stark’s voice is gentle. “I made a set for everyone on the team, for Christmas. I had the flu at the end of November and binge-watched _The Great British Baking Show,_  then I remembered the ones I got you in October and wanted to try my hand. I even made a set of bright green yuzu and honey ones for the Hulk and ate them all dunked in vodka because I’m gonna fuckin’ drown Banner when I find out where he’s been hiding for over a year.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you could bake.” _Tap, tap._ “What the heck is a yuzu?”

“Neither did I, what a coinky-dink. It’s a lemon that saw _Wicked_ one too many times.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, mind and hands wandering. The moment stretches a fraction too long.

“M’saying it’s green, kid,” Stark explains, as Peter touches his own warm, dry lips. _Tap, tap._

“I wish I knew how to make more stuff; cooking is hard on May because it just reminds her of my uncle too much. We waste way too much money on takeout,” Peter says, and means it, even though he’s primarily casting about for a topic to keep the conversation going.

“Hmmm, sorry to hear that,” Stark says, distracted, and hums, “…look, kid, like I said I’m really proud of you and I’m glad you liked your gifts. I have to go, the ball’s about to drop and Pepper will be pissed if I’m not there.”

“Okay.” ( _Fuck._ )

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Too late,” Peter says, settling back down on his back.

“Happy New Year, Pete.”

“Happy New Year, Mr. Stark,” he says, as his eyes, which have long since fully adjusted to the dark of the room, linger over the image of his mentor’s face on the Expo poster before falling shut.

_Click._

It’s disappointing, but Peter still half-heartedly scratches down his chest and rubs himself lazily for the next five minutes, rolling his palm around the head of his cock and getting everything nice and slick, sleepy as he is. He ends up tightening his grip and stroking slowly for another couple minutes, squeezing the tension out of himself and letting it roll in waves down to his toes, tingling thighs and quad muscles restlessly jerking his legs against the sheets. He’s just realizing how close it must be getting to midnight, thinking of how Mr. Stark is probably drinking rich-people champagne with Pepper and all their adult friends, when he hears a countdown begin from the next-door neighbor’s apartment.

_10, 9, 8, 7-_

And the wild, brilliant idea hits him like lightning. Mr. Stark could give him a countdown, ask him to come right at the right moment, not before and not after.

_6, 5, 4-_

And, Peter would be so good, he’d listen so well. He’d wait _so_ patiently, as the older man touched him, held him close, and prepared to slot their mouths together right at the right moment.

_3, 2-_

Peter bites back a moan, choking on it and mindful of Aunt May, even as his mind’s eye fills with the image of Mr. Stark kissing him and pressing him down into the bed, _him and no one else,_  on New Year’s Eve in an empty master bedroom, encouraging him to ring in the new year by painting his release over both of them.

_1-_

_Holy shit, Parker. Holy fucking shit,_ he tells himself, before coming so hard he promptly passes out.

(Happy New Year.)

\---

After that, Peter tries to slow things down a little. It’s not that it wasn’t great, (oh my god it was so so great, so intense), but it starts to feel a little icky, too. A little, well, _wrong._

He wonders what would have happened if Mr. Stark hadn’t been at a party, if he’d been alone and had stayed on the phone with Peter for the countdown. Would it still have been okay for Peter to, uh, enjoy himself the way he had? Surely not, surely not while Mr. Stark was actually talking to him, with no idea of the lewd thoughts running through Peter’s brain? That wouldn’t have been okay… would it?

No, Peter decides. He wouldn’t like it if things were the other way around, if he was on the phone with Mr. Stark and thought that the older man wasn’t paying attention to Peter’s words or ideas. Pete would hate that, I mean (he would love to have that kind of raw _power_ over someone’s arousal, sure, but) it would really suck to be on the phone thinking Mr. Stark was pulling a fast one on him. And wasn’t that exactly what Peter had done, entranced by the man’s voice as well as the kindness and patience that it had exuded down the line?

He resolves to never again pervert the fatherly attention Tony Stark is, inexplicably, bestowing on him. Peter can’t help what turns him on, now, and he won’t deny himself, but he’s not going to keep chafing himself over totally innocent gifts and earnest conversations. That’s wrong, and worse, it risks the entire health of their mentoring relationship. (So not worth it.)

He’s gonna let this go, and just keep busy. It won’t be hard ( _haha_ ), now that school is going again and he’s up at the compound almost every weekend.

\---

Aunt May comes with for his inaugural weekend there, eager to be in the know, finally. Ms. Potts is also there to help finesse the whole thing, as well as War Machine, who was in the area.

The first thing out of Peter’s mouth when he sees him is, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I ate you, man. I mean, sir, I mean, Commander, uh-.”

Rhodey, to his great credit, just says, “Yeah, those cookies were great,” and brushes right past him to shake Aunt May’s hand.

“Hello, pleasure to meet you, I’m May Parker,” she says mildly, while Peter goes red. He busies himself with looking around at the open floor plan kitchen, dining, and living room area. There’s a balcony, but he can’t see from this angle how far it wraps around.

“Likewise, ma’am, pleasure to meet you. James Rhodes. Has anyone ever told you, you look like a more down-to-earth version of Marisa Tomei, the actress?” Rhodes asks politely.

“Hmm, I’ve gotten similar remarks before… must be why Mr. Stark calls me ‘Aunt Bae’,” she answers, tossing Tony a withering look as she does the air quotes.

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” Peter says, snapping back to the conversation.

“Tony had a highly-publicized whirlwind romance with Tomei in his younger years, dragged the poor girl all over Italy, if I recall correctly,” Pepper pipes up.

“Oh,” Peter says, a spark of mischief blossoming along the twist of his smile, “that must have been such a long, long, _long_ time ago. Why didn’t it work out?”

Pepper snorts into her coffee, throwing Peter a conspiratorial smile and wink over the rim of the Stark Industries mug.

Stark, on the other hand is, Not Amused™.

“Hmmm, I dunno, Pete. Maybe she was _making fun of my age_ and I _dropped her off the Empire State Building_.”

“Jeez, no need to get grumpy, _old man,_  I was jus-”

“No, you know what, mister?” Stark says, mock-menacingly and smiling, now. “Go to your room.”

Peter flicks his eyes over to Aunt May, who is also smiling and momentarily glancing back towards him and away from the other woman, as Pepper hands her a mug of tea. Commander Rhodes’s dark eyes are flicking back and forth between Peter and Tony, like he’s watching a ping-pong game.

Looking back at Mr. Stark, who is now pointing ‘sternly’ towards a long hallway off the common area, Peter’s mouth goes dry.

“I get my own room?” he pipes up.

“Of course, kid. I’m in the biggest room right across the hall, it was originally a jumbo room for either Banner or Thor, although I’ll probably mostly be in the lab downstairs or I might nip up to the top floor to get stuff from Pepper’s apartment,” Stark explains as he walks Peter down the hall. He does not touch Peter or guide him by the shoulder or the back. Pete swallows nervously, regardless, imagining it instead.

“ _Our_ apartment, dear,” Pepper calls from the main area.

“Right. And Rhodey stays next door down from me, occasionally, then the bathroom, although everyone has an ensuite… and Nat’s not here much, but her room is next to yours. May can use that tonight, if she likes. Suite for Wanda and Viz is at the end of the hall, but you probably won’t see them either. Linen closet is across from the bathroom, but seriously, just let the maid handle it.”

“This is _awesome._ What’s your maid’s name?” Peter inquires.

“What?” Stark questions, looking away from the door at the end of the hall. “…Oh, it’s Desiré. She’s been vetted by S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I wasn’t worried about that, though I guess that’s good… do you have any other… staff, I guess? Ones I should know, you know, so I can say hi?” Peter asks.

Mr. Stark gives him a funny little look, one corner of his mouth lifting with good humor. He blinks at Peter and the smile that is held back at his mouth reaches up for his eyes instead.

“We had a chef, went by the name of Josh of all things, but he moved on when I decided I wanted to start cooking for myself. Went to work for some YouTube comedy duo last week,” he explains, turning and walking away.

“Oh,” Peter says softly, as they return to the common room. He wonders how much May’s mental and physical health would improve if she had her own chef, then wonders why anyone who already had one would dismiss theirs.

“Three floors below us are the pool and gym, and the garage where you came in is the floor above that, between the gym and the lab,” the older man continues, oblivious.

“The training level must be underground then,” Peter surmises, and counts off on his fingers, “Garage, lab, living space, and Ms. Potts is at the top? But I thought I saw five floors when we were pulling up? What’s above us?”

Pepper’s mug freezes halfway to her lips, before she takes a quick sip and flees to the balcony overlooking the park-like campus that distances their private part of the compound from the industrial and public areas. Rhodey walks up and slaps Tony’s shoulder on his way past, loping off to show May to Black Widow’s room (“I promise, ma’am, there are no Soviet listening devices in there.”)

When it’s just the two of them, Mr. Stark looks Peter dead in the eye and says, “The next floor up is basically its own self-sufficient home, has its own kitchen and living spaces, everything. It was meant to be, I mean, I designed it for, for Steve and… you know, for Cap and Barnes, before I found out…”

Peter is silent, watching the way the older man’s normally-steady hands are beginning to shake.

“… there’s even a guest room up there for the Falcon… probably covered in dust…”

He doesn’t know what else to do, so Peter says, “Speaking of dust, I think maybe we should add some kind of self-cleaning functionality to my suit? I’ve been on some pretty gritty rooftops lately, and I don’t want some tiny particle upsetting the whole delicate balance of mechanisms…”

“Yeah, you’re right kid, we wouldn’t want that,” comes the grateful reply. “Let us sally forth and see what we can do, huh?” Stark says officiously, to cover the moment, and heads in the direction of the lab.

(We. Us.)

\---

The rest of the weekend goes pretty smoothly as Mr. Stark details exactly what he expects of Peter and how, aside from the Avengers stuff, he does actually want him to log some lab time working on flexible chemical bonding agents for SI. Peter feels the weight of responsibility (and its twin, respect) settle comfortably on the back of his neck. When Mr. Stark tells him this is, at least partially, just like a _real_ internship and not just a pretext, Peter is also infused with a warm glow, somewhere near his sternum.

It’s wonderful.

The weekend only gets better when, on Sunday night, Mr. Stark offers to teach him how to make fettucine carbonara. His mentor goes through it step-by-step, showing him how to make long, flat noodles from scratch and comparing them to the store-bought pasta that is also on hand. Peter watches the water begin to boil, and when he turns back around to ask why they need two big pots of hot water, there are two piles of similar ingredients on the long, marble counter. On his side, it’s a bag of frozen peas, a half-gallon of milk, a baking sheet, tin foil, and parchment paper, a package of bacon as well as a shaker of fake parmesan cheese, and the box of pasta. The other man’s set up includes fresh prosciutto, fresh peas, the homemade pasta, some clove garlic and stem rosemary, a grater, a block of real parmesan, and heavy cream. Between the two piles is a carton of eggs and a salt grinder.

“Welcome to the Great American Cook-off, Mr. Parker, come on down,” Mr. Stark drawls.

“What the heck is-,” Peter starts, but gets cut off.

“You wanted to learn how to cook, I wanted to once again attempt to hit on your aunt, so here we are,” Stark interrupts, winking at Pepper to show he’s not serious. She’s sitting next to May on the other side of the wide counter, watching them both.

“Okayyyy… but why do we have different stuff? Is this a real competition? Is there a prize?” Peter asks.

“The pride of a job well done, kid. You’re gonna learn to cook this with stuff you can find around your apartment, while yours truly will be doing things the _right_ way.”

“Well, that’s not fair…” Peter grouses.

“Life’s not fair,” May puts in, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on the counter. She’s grinning.

“Come on, Underoos. Stand up for the little guy. Take the challenge of making something authentically cheap but still good. Knock the big, bad capitalist’s monocle off, like all the cool kids are doing,” Stark goads.

 _Underoos…?_  May mouths at Peter, eyebrow lifting. Pepper catches it out of the corner of her eye and explains the reference, sotto voce and smiling, as Mr. Stark continues.

“Look, kid, I even got us Garanimals,” he says, pulling out a matching pair of aprons.

They’re kitschy, almost but not exactly the same cheap print and styling as that stupid tee-shirt, (oh no), and it’s just like his dream, his nightmare. It’s all mixed up inside, and Peter is caught. No, Peter is _trapped,_ between the awful, horrible vision of Mr. Stark in that apron with the taxi on it, not-snow falling all around them before he crumbles to ash, he’s pinned between that and reading the stupid saying over and over (“I Survived My Trip to NYC”…, “I Survived”…, “I Survived”, oh god, but you didn’t). He thinks of Pepper crying in his dream, engagement ring gleaming, and she’s sitting _right there,_  she’s right there while he monopolizes her fiancé’s time and resources, while he thinks about the shirt that he jerked off in, to the thought her lover’s voice, _what the fuck-_

Peter reaches out blindly for something to steady himself on, and puts his hand directly on the hot edge of a large pot of the boiling water, immediately jerking away, but toppling it and causing the scalding water to spill down the front of the stove and his arm all the same.

\---

It takes only twenty or thirty minutes, maybe, for the severe scald to stop bubbling and heal over. Peter’s skin is a little too shiny, but otherwise fine. If only the people around him could be put to rights that easily.

May is horrified, because she’s no dummy, okay? Seeing Peter’s healing factor in action for the first time leads her to realize just how many truly awful injuries he has the power to hide from her, at any given moment. She peppers him with a litany of questions, asking him if he’s ever broken any bones, does the healing factor replenish his blood if he loses too much, has he ever been _shot_ , oh my god tell me right now, young man, and so on…

Pepper takes over dinner, quickly and efficiently making the pasta with the remaining pot of water and the sauce with the fresh ingredients. As the sauce sets, she packs the low-brow groceries into a bag for Peter to take home later, on autopilot.

And Mr. Stark is the worst, just the worst, because he is totally silent. He rubs some kind of rich-people skincare into the shiny splotch of skin that crawls up Peter’s forearm and curls around his elbow. He makes sure to get the serum, which smells faintly of aloe and cucumber, in between each of Peter’s fingers and massages it gently into Peter’s palm where there’s a harsh line, like a cut, from touching the water pot directly. He doesn’t say a word, just glances every so often over at May as she freaks the fuck out, making sure that this is okay, that he is allowed to touch _her_ kid that just had something suspiciously like a panic attack in _his_ kitchen and burned himself to high heaven.

Peter, miserable already from ruining everything, _yet again,_  feels like even more of a shit when he looks up and says, “May, you’re just making it worse,” before he can stop himself.

She immediately goes silent, and although her face doesn’t look angry, Peter can hear her back teeth grinding, thanks to his enhanced senses.

“Fine,” she guts out. May gets up from the arm of the sofa, where she had been leaning over him, and quietly asks Pepper if there’s a box or a Tupperware or something she can take some dinner home in, and could Peter stay one more night? “I need a drink anyway.”

Mr. Stark looks over speculatively, about to offer her a stiff nightcap for the road, since she’s not driving herself anyway, before he catches sight of Peter’s face. May never drinks anything but wine around Peter, not since the days directly after Ben. Stark nods like he can read Peter’s mind and his face goes carefully blank as he glances between Pepper and May.

However, May is still speaking, still quietly and with a dead-sounding voice that betrays her hurt, “Peter, you stay here, with your ‘Iron Dad’…” she air quotes, “you don’t need me anyway. Stark, he better be at school on time tomorrow if you have to fly him there yourself.”

And with that, she takes the cloth bag full of carbonara ingredients and the plastic food container, making to walk out of the room and towards the elevator area. Pete’s voice stops her.

“He’s not my dad.”

Stark’s face, if possible, becomes even more blank, almost aggressively neutral, and Pepper rounds the kitchen counter as if she wants to put herself bodily between Tony and everyone else.

May whips around, accusatory, as if to say, _What is there left for me to do? What can I give you that he can’t, when he knows all your secrets and can tell you his own back?_

But in reality, she says nothing, waiting to see what else Peter will offer up.

“Aunt May, I’m sorry I ruined dinner and I’m sorry I scared you. It was an accident. Don’t be mad and don’t be, don’t-… don’t be jealous of Mr. Stark, because I’m not replacing anybody with him. I don’t need another parent,” he mumbles, especially the last bit.

“I already had a dad, two of ‘em, actually,” he finishes, smile a bit watery. May blinks, slow.

He looks down at where Mr. Stark had been kneeling in front of him, noticing that he’s now leaned back on his haunches enough to actually be sitting, back against the slab of the coffee table.

“Transmission received, kid,” is all he says, face still Switzerland, lines of his body tense.

“It’s not a rejection of you, Mr. Stark, no no no, listen,” Pete rushes, realizing now how he must be coming off, “It’s like at Christmas, right, you sent me Undercover Karen and it’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten, but at first, because of the smallish box, I thought it would be a watch? But, like, I already have my Uncle Ben’s watch, so… or like, if you hadn’t been so totally done with me before homecoming, you asked me to take my measurements a couple days before the ferry, right? But you said do them a little looser and I knew it couldn’t have been for the spider suit… You were going to send me like, a _suit_ suit, for the dance, right?”

Mr. Stark smiles at that one, genuinely caught-out, and glances at May who is looking less grey, with the shopping bag having migrated to the floor by her right shoe. “Yeah, I was.”

“But, you have to understand, yeah that would be amazing Mr. Stark, like I wanna learn everything you know about science, and dressing sharp, and fighting, and cooking, and building, and _everything,_  but I also want to… you know. I was always going to wear Ben’s suit to that dance, regardless. Sorry.”

Stark looks down at his hands, still faintly greasy from the burn salve, and rubs them on the thighs of his loose black jeans. He looks up, and, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, kid.”

“It’s okay, honey,” May says, caving at last. “I’m just tired and I hate seeing you hurt. I’m not mad. Why don’t you stay here tonight anyway? It’s the least reward you can get for burning the shit out of your hand, hey, maybe Tony will drive you to school in an Aston Martin or something equally ridiculous.”

“Are you sure, May?” the man asks, judiciously choosing not to comment on her use of his first name… or her ragging on Aston Martins.

“Go for it, Stark. Pepper, could you help me with a lift home?” she responds.

“I’m going to drive you,” Pepper states.

“No, I don’t mind the driverless, I couldn’t put you out like that…”

“I insist,” Pepper counters, sneaking a glance at Tony and Peter as she bends, graceful in her heels, to pick up the discarded grocery bag. And so they go.

Peter and his mentor both listen to the _clack-clack_ of Pepper leaving with May’s padding ballet flats following behind her, and neither moves until they hear the _ding_ of the elevator.

Mr. Stark unfolds himself, knees popping, from the floor. He groans, “I am too fucking old for this shit,” before pivoting onto the couch next to Peter. Right hand outstretched, he flicks his hand and nano-bots explode from a metal bracelet, to form a standalone Iron Man hand, complete with downward-facing repulsion thruster. The thing, looking like it inched its way out of a cross between _The Addams Family_ and _The_ _Jetsons,_  flies over and brings the prepared plates of carbonara, forks resting on top, over to the couch for them one at a time.

“Cool butler, Mr. Stark.”

The older man hands Peter the first plate before responding and waits for him to take a healthy bite before attempting to catch him off-guard. He holds up his own plate, newly acquired, to finish off his words with a _really_ bad pun.

“Yeah, bitchin’. So, kid, what the hell happened in there? _Dish_.”

\---

In the end, Peter tells Stark the bare minimum, just that the aprons reminded him too much of the shirt from the night of the ferry, and for some odd reason, Mr. Stark lets him get away with that.

The good food and stressful conversation wear him out, and he collapses in his comfy bed, much nicer and wider than the one at home, with guilt still burning low in his stomach.

After what can only have been a few hours, he wakes, gasping with that same heat in his belly, though it tingles more and stings less. He had been dreaming about Mr. Stark rubbing that aloe-y stuff into the thin skin between his fingers, the webbing between finger and thumb, and into the pressure points on the underside of his wrist; he had been dreaming of making Mr. Stark sit back and watch as Peter slipped his own greased fingers, down, down, _down…_

_(Oh.)_

And now Peter is fervently glad that he’d been shown the location of the fresh linen closet. However, he doesn’t know the location of the laundry, to take care of his sticky sheets. He slips Karen’s earbud into his ear and whispers, “Hey, do you know where the washer and dryer are in this place?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know, Peter. Would you like me to contact FRIDAY and inquire?” comes Karen’s response.

“No, Karen!” He whisper-shouts, unsure if contacting his AI assistant would wake the older man or not. But Peter has an idea. Earlier, Mr. Stark had made Captain America’s floor sound so… self-contained… there was bound to be a laundry room somewhere within the suite. Peter takes the emergency stairs up one flight to avoid the noiseof the elevator.

Thankfully, the place has been stocked despite all the furniture being covered in plastic or draping cloths. Peter adds the unscented laundry soap and starts the washer on what he hopes is its quietest cycle. It’s a fancy model with a digital readout that Peter can only imagine would have frustrated Steve Rogers to no end, but it does tell him he must wait exactly 38 minutes before he’ll be able to switch the sheets to the dryer. For some reason his brain translates that into permission to make a ‘snow’ angel in the moderate layer of dust carpeting the expansive living room of the suite.

“I guess Desiré doesn’t come up here much, huh Karen?” he asks rhetorically.

“I would say it is likely that she does not, Peter,” the AI agrees.

There’s silence for a few minutes, but Peter doesn’t want to fall asleep accidentally.

“Hey, Karen? Do you think it’s morally wrong to even just think about doing something morally wrong? Or is it only wrong if you actually do it?”

“Hmmm, Peter, that is quite an interesting question. Contemporary literature on the subject suggests that, on one hand, the private thoughts of citizens ought to exist within a space of complete freedom, up until the moment that those thoughts impact the rights of another living creature or the public inheritance of natural resources. As a corollary to this hypothesis, however, it should be noted that people other than oneself also have complete freedom of thought under this system and may purport to think badly of any individual for their private thoughts, should they be known to the other people, in a form of social censure and peer-provided sanctioning.”

“Huh. Okayyyy, thanks Karen,” Peter says, and wishes he had his web-shooters. He’d shoot one at the ceiling and pull himself up to crawl upside-down to the other side of the room. He doesn’t want to ruin his dust angel in the process of getting up, but there’s nothing for it as he goes to check how much time is left on the washer.

“But, still, Karen, I want to know at what point thoughts become, like, really punishable,” Peter continues as he heads towards the laundry room, “I mean it can’t just be like that really old movie, _Minority Report,_ can-”

“ _Minority Report_ is not that old, kid, it’s not _Casablanca_ for Christ’s sake,” comes a gravelly voice from the darkness, and Peter hits the ceiling. Literally.

The laundry room light flicks on, illuminating the figure of Tony Stark sitting on top of the dryer, left hand on the wall switch.

“Mr. Stark! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you…” Peter gasps and then trails off before he lets himself drop gracefully back to the floor with a minor _thud._  After a beat of silence, “Oh _man._ I wish I had known I had the strength to jump from the floor to the ceiling and stick the grip. I wouldn’t have ruined my dust angel!”

The haggard man eyes the long line of the kid’s back. Pete’s tee shirt and sleep pants are color-blocked with grey fuzz, from behind. He drops his head into his hands, then moves one to absently scratch at his stubble, eyeing Peter once more.

“You didn’t.”

“Well, I, uh- I was waiting for the washer to stop…” Peter explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re killin’ me, Smalls. Absolutely killin’ me,” Stark responds, trying to sound gently disparaging.

Peter grins, though, “Seen that movie too, Mr. Stark. You’ll never defeat me.”

“You’re… probably right,” the older man sighs, letting Peter think he’s in control of the situation for a moment.

Peter hums a little triumphant tune under his breath, but stops abruptly when his mentor continues with, “Now, are you going to tell me what ‘punishable’ thoughts you were worried about, up here?”

Pete groans quietly, “Can’t we just let that one go?”

“No can do, Petey-Pie,” Stark quips. “Does it have anything to do with your somewhat emo dissatisfaction with livin’ _la vida,_  you know, _loca_ or otherwise?”

“Oh my god, how are you awake enough for wordplay?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete,” Mr. Stark warns.

Peter wants to answer in the affirmative and take the out that Mr. Stark has (seemingly unintentionally) given him. He wants to say, _“Yes, I was just really down and asking Karen if it was really bad to be thinking depressing thoughts, so can I please go back to my room and listen to Twenty One Pilots or something?”_ But he doesn’t because he’s trying out this whole maturity thing, and he feels keenly that this is a watershed moment when it comes to Mr. Stark’s opinion of him. This conversation is a dual-bladed switchblade, perfectly balanced on Peter’s finger. If he moves forward, one sharp edge may cut him, but if he backs away now, it may tip forward and slice Mr. Stark.

The choice is simple, really. (Better cover that earnestness in sass.)

“No, okay? It has nothing to do with my very _non-existent_ desire to shuffle off this mortal coil using nothing but a smartphone and some Latin flair. Good enough?” Peter asks, immediately regretting the phrasing of that last into a yes-or-no question.

“No,” answers the other man. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just that I’m gonna need a little more to go off of here, alright?” he says, not unkindly.

“Fine,” Pete says carefully, watching Mr. Stark watch him watch his face. “It has to do with what happened in the kitchen.”

“Which was...?” Stark prompts, just as carefully.

“It was the aprons. They reminded me of something I saw in a really bad nightmare, okay?” and then as soon as he says it, Peter can’t stop. He just lays it all on Mr. Stark, just has to lay it all out from the feeling of being pinned for display, like an insect, and again under the Vulture’s avalanche of rubble, to the noose, to the snake, to Tony placing the macaron on his tongue and dissolving into ash, with Pepper weeping in the background. It all just comes tumbling out of him, and it feels like getting his stomach pumped, like the filthy water of the Upper Bay is still, still, _still_ in him somehow. (It is.)

Mr. Stark stares, silent, and then has to look away, lifting his eyes. Peter can’t tell if he’s subconsciously looking to the heavens for guidance, or if he’s trying to mentally x-ray through and see that Pepper’s okay, sleeping peacefully. (It’s both.)

Of course, at that exact moment, the washer decides to announce the end of the wash cycle, in a cheery and ever-so-slightly Korean-accented voice.

Before Peter can react, Stark has hopped down off the dryer to switch out the load of laundry, seemingly grateful for something to do with his hands. That is, until he sees it’s a load of freshly cleaned bedsheets.

He doesn’t react, doesn’t draw in a dramatic intake of breath or anything, but Peter’s senses focus like a fancy camera on the slightly exaggerated hunch the sight brings to Mr. Stark’s shoulders, the extra tension there. Mercifully, his mentor would never embarrass Peter further by commenting or dropping the washing to the floor. He simply bundles the wet, but clean, cotton into the dryer, punches in the heat and timer settings, closes the door and starts the machine. He programs the Samsung unit not to sound any announcement or buzzer when the drying time is through, before turning to face Peter.

“Time for sleep,” he says. He doesn’t look angry or disgusted or anything really. He’s back to that Switzerland face, again, and there’s no arguing with this particular brand of Tony Stark.

“Yes, sir.”

“No more bad dreams, either, they’re not allowed,” he decrees.

“Mr. Stark, you know I have no control over that,” Peter says, in a miserable voice.

“I know, kid. I’m not telling you. I’m telling the dreams.”

\---

When the next two weekends upstate go off with little fanfare, Peter thinks it’s reasonable to assume he’s in the clear. Mr. Stark has clearly decided that they should never speak of that night again, and Peter is more than fine with that.

It turns out the catch is Mr. Stark wants him to talk about it with someone else. But first:

There’s a B&E at the shop several streets south of the apartment, the perfectly normal little bodega, no different from any other (get it _together,_  Parker!), the place that is _absolutely ordinary_ except for the fact that the ceiling of that shop is the last thing Benjamin Parker ever saw. (No, no, _no_ …)

Peter had lassoed the thug out of there with the _thwip_ of a web shot, feet stopping just shy of the threshold that was littered with broken glass from the door of the shop. He knew (oh, how he knew), that it would be long minutes before the police arrived, so he webbed the culprit up good and tight, but couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay there.

Before he knows it, Peter is scaling Stark Tower, breath coming in gasps… and how did he get here all the way from Forest Hills, well actually Kew Gardens, so fast?

The sliding door hisses open at the same moment that Karen announces an incoming call, and he mindlessly answers as he collapses onto the leather monstrosity of a sofa.

“Pete? Peter! Are you alright?” Mr. Stark’s voice cuts in, immediately.

He can’t breathe, oh my god, he _can’t breathe,_  what the fuck ( _ok, ready? ah, ah-_ ) he’s going to suffocate ( _hello?!_ ), his lungs aren’t filling and his brain is choking on CO 2 ( _please, please, I need help_ ), and if he dies May is gonna kill him-

( _I’m down here! Please!_ )

“Kid, listen, you need to calm down. You’re safe, you’re in Stark Tower. FRIDAY alerted me to your vitals, and I really need you to listen to my voice, I’m right here. Breathe with me, I know you can hear it, okay? Match me. One, in through the nose, two- you’re doing so good, Peter-, now three, out like you’re blowing through a straw okay, and four, good!”

Peter focuses on the voice, not sure if he can trust it. Is this the sun, leading him to air, or light reflecting off the trash at the bottom of the bay?

“Let’s do it again, okay, one more time. In through the nose, one and two and, make an ‘o’ with your mouth, breathe out- good boy, slowly now- three and _four._  It’s okay, son, I got you.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter coughs out, hoarse.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

“I don’t feel so good…”

“You were having a panic attack, okay?” Stark explains, “It’s, uh, not my first time. Just focus on my voice, focus on breathing. You’re going to be fine.”

“It was some guy, breaking and entering-,” Peter tries.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it yet, Pete-,” Mr. Stark interjects.

“No, no, listen, it was at _Alba’s_ on Met Ave, okay, do you-”

“Oh? Uh, no I don’t know it- oh. _Oh,_ Peter, I’m sorry that-”

“No, no, Mr. Stark…,” Peter tries again, “I’m asking if, you know, can you see if the police have showed up there yet? I didn’t let him get away?” (Again.)

“FRIDAY is telling me police are on-scene and, hold on…,” Stark answers, pausing as the AI continues to search, “it looks like CCTV from across the street shows the bozo is in custody.”

Peter feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but in a good way. His head thumps down on the sofa in momentary relief. But then:

“Pete, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this right now, but we gotta get you in to see someone, okay? Soon. You can’t go on like this.”

“Like what, Mr. Stark, what are you talking about?” Peter evades, knowing where this is headed.

“You know exactly what, kid. Listen, I know what I’m talking about, I tried to tough out my anxiety too, and it always came on at the worst times. Not worth it,” Tony expounds.

“I don’t have _anxiety,_  Mr. Stark, it’s just-”

“What do you think tonight was?” Stark asks, adding, “Or the first weekend at the compound?”

“Well like you said, it was the very first weekend with me upstate…” Peter tries.

“No, uh-uh, c’mon. Christ, Peter, we agreed you’d let me watch out for you. This is me doing that, so why are you busting my balls?” The older man interrupts, a hint of frustration leaking into his voice.

“I, uh, I’m not, sir,” Peter starts, focusing on his breathing again, “It’s just that May and I, you know, she has a good job at the women’s literary collective but we can’t really afford… _that_.”

“Well in that case-” his mentor begins, before being cut off.

“I’m not going to let you pay for it, either, Mr. Stark! Throwing money at somebody is not the same thing as caring about them… I’m sorry, maybe that’s harsh, but I can’t, I can’t, I _won’t_ -”

The line is silent, but Peter knows Mr. Stark can hear him center his breathing before continuing.

“You have to promise me you won’t try to pay for it, personally or via SI, or else I’m not going at all. Okay? I’m gonna try, I’m going to try so hard to be good, okay? But you have to promise.”

Stark’s resolve seems to soften just a bit. “Okay, kid. No takes-backsies.”

Peter smiles, just a little one, at that. “Okay. I promise too.”

“Good boy.”

\---

Of course, Peter really should have known better. Especially when a courier shows up at the door. He answers it, two nights later, since May just got home and is in the shower.

“Peter Benjamin Parker?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me, can I help you with-”

“I’d say you’ve been served, but I don’t think you’re technically old enough, so… here,” the courier cuts in, pushing the packet into his hands before practically sprinting to catch the elevator.

“Whaaa-?” he starts, but undercover Karen is already chiming in his ear. He answers in a daze.

“Yes?”

“Hey kid, mail call,” Stark quips.

“What? Mr. Stark, what’s going on, am I being sued?” Peter is freaking out.

“No, you’re being sanctioned!” his mentor exclaims, unnervingly cheery. “I was able to keep your civilian identity out of the new version of the Accords, but they’re demanding you attend some form of talk therapy due to your age and the potential for young brains to develop PTSD. Of course, internationally-mandated therapy means you’ll be extremely well-funded! Aren’t you so glad I pay my taxes, unlike the other billionaires?”

Pete can feel his ears getting red, as he states, “ _You_ did this.”

“Well… yeah. But-”

“But, nothing! You promised!” Peter interjects.

“Well, technically, this isn’t breaking our promise. Neither I nor Stark Industries is writing the check on this one. You just need to get May to sign the accord and it will be securely redacted by _moi,_ before being passed on. However, it still needs to be signed underneath the redaction, by her. They don’t let twinks, even super-powered ones, sign international treaties, and a select few in the government will still have clearance to override the redaction,” Mr. Stark mansplains.

“Duuuuude,” Peter whines, “that’s like in _Paranormal Activity_ where the guy goes, ‘But I didn’t _buy_ a Ouija board.’ That’s totally cheating…and I think she eats him for it.”

“Bro?” Tony mocks, drawing out the breathy ‘o’ sound obnoxiously. “That’s business.”

Peter tries to make his betrayal outshine his gratitude, wanting to truly be a brat for once, but somehow it’s not a tie, like, at all. Then:

“Wait, what did you just call me?!”

_Click._

“Mr. Stark has disconnected,” Karen intones, needlessly.

However, Peter receives a text, minutes later, from welder+sunglasses. It says, “ _sorry, didn’t mean that, totally inappropriate. get the papers signed._ ”

And, finally, another one, “ _also paranormal activity isn’t worth the film they made it on; try as above, so below if you like found footage_.”

Peter just sighs, knowing he’s been beaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like an alternate POV on the scene where Peter gets scalded, check this out: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17747564/chapters/41874644


	5. Tell me something that I'll forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rough ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for mental health triggers, suicidal actions, general angst, etc.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Disarm - Smashing Pumpkins
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

Aunt May is so pleased that Peter has agreed to go to therapy when he finally tells her the next day, that she lifts his grounding nearly two weeks early, on February 1st. He texts MJ and Ned right away, and they both agree to come over after the dinner hour is through. Ned stipulates that Peter needs to make time tonight for them to at least _open_ the new Lego set, for Ned’s unboxing channel, which is unironically called One Thing Leeds To Another. MJ says she will happily give up the rest of her Imbolc to hang out, just this once, since she already did her sabbat ritual anyway. Peter doesn’t ask.

And it hardly matters anyway, because the warm glow he gets when they take the time to catch him up in a three-way hug, and Michelle doesn’t even squirm that much, infuses his entire being.

Frankly, it surprises Peter, after months of feeling oh so far away from everyone, but he’s willing to roll with it. It’s worth it for the look of absolute shock on Ned’s face when they all head to Peter’s room and the spider suit is haphazardly thrown on his bunk.

Michelle’s expression doesn’t even twitch, not until the third time Ned whips his head back and forth between them. She waits until the off-swing, when Ned is looking at Peter, to wink, before her features rearrange themselves quickly into overblown concern.

Her right hand floats up and mimes touching her heart in sheer sentimentality, as she peers into Ned’s still-shocked face and asks, “Oh _Leeds,_ sweetheart, you didn’t know?” in the most empathetic voice she can muster.

It’s a truly artistic performance, one that makes Ned’s wide eyes shutter to a squint (he knows better), as he draws himself up to say, “You _traitor_. Oh my god, you knew the whole freakin’ time!”

Peter holds his breath as Ned’s head whips back around to face him.

“Peter! She knew the whole time!”

“Yeah, Ned, I got that, buddy,” Pete replies. His last couple of weekends at the compound had enlightened him to some glaring similarities in personality between Natasha and MJ, so he’s had an inkling she might not be as in the dark as she wanted them to believe.

“But, but-”

“But nothing, Leeds, if you didn’t want people to figure it out, he should have hid that newly-built brick shithouse bod in something baggier than nerd shirts and skinny jeans for the past year,” MJ interjects, before continuing, “and I say that as someone currently 100 percent wrapped up in pursuing the fire of my loins, Gwen Stacy.”

Peter nods his approval at that one, asking, “The blonde?”

“The _platinum_ blonde,” MJ practically purrs, excited for once.

“Nice. How’s that going?” Peter asks with a smile, enjoying the simple act of gossiping with his friends and acting his age.

“Well, I hate to TV-trope the poor girl, but I think what she needs is to see me with someone else. We hang out, and we made out once,” Michelle explains, hushing Ned when he sucks in air at that, before finishing with, “but she’s sort of taking me for a sure thing, which I totally am, but… well… I want her to make a clear-cut choice. Maybe she needs a little jealous motivation. Is that wrong?”

Peter thinks a minute before answering, “Well Karen says that people’s thoughts and actions are totally free until they interfere with others, so maybe it’s okay? Like, as long as you don’t keep up the charade too long, and you don’t give her an ultimatum or like try to force her into anything? I mean it _is_ a little dishonest, if you’re going to pretend to date some one else…” he trails off and shrugs.

“Wait, who is Karen again?” Ned cuts in.

“It’s his hearing aid, duh,” and well, okay yeah, MJ is definitely super-spy material. Peter is about to tell her she should be the next Black Widow before he considers how that might unintentionally come across badly, given her skin tone. Maybe Red Widow, he thinks, or is it worse to assume she _wouldn’t_ want to be called Black Widow? He’s confused and lost in his conflicting thoughts as Ned questions MJ as to the extent of her Spider-Man knowledge.

Wanting to change the subject, Peter inquires, “So what’s the plan to make Gwen realize what she’s missing?”

At that, MJ just quirks an eyebrow and challenges him, voice rising slightly, “Well, I was thinking you, boy wonder. Can you make that sacrifice and show up with me to this Valentine’s Sadie Hawkins bullshit? Make my little spaghetti lesbian sweat it out for a few hours? As friends, of course,” she emphasizes.

Yeah, that _really_ doesn’t help with his confusion.

Before Ned can jump in, May leans her head in the door and says, “Peter, your friends can say what they want, but don’t ever let me catch you using the phrase ‘spaghetti lesbian’; it’s presumptuous and demeaning of people’s sexual identity. And try to keep your voices down, since Pepper is visiting.”

MJ’s mouth clicks shut as her brow furrows, and Ned looks at Peter as if to say, _what the heck was that?_

Moments after May walks away, Peter picks up Ms. Potts’s tinkling laugh coming from the kitchen and he holds an index finger up to his friends before attempting to casually enter the dining area for a peek.

“Oh, Peter, good to see you!” Pepper greets, as soon as he rounds the door frame. Her wide, open smile is different from the closed, quirky one he sees on her most often, but the real kicker is that Pepper Potts is sitting at the kitchen table, feet bare and propped up on another chair, while May paints her toenails.

This is curious because Peter didn’t think May cared about stuff like that. Just last week she’d clipped her nails short and filed them plain and smooth, and encouraged him to do the same. Peter feels acutely that he’s stepped into bizarro-world, when Pepper gives a tiny, controlled shriek, saying, “May, that really tickles!” as she wiggles her toes.

“Uh… hi, Ms. Potts. Is… Mr. Stark here?” he asks, well and truly confused.

May and Pepper share a brief, but meaningful, look before she answers, “No, he’s out of state on business until your next weekend with him.”

“Oh, uh, okay, thanks. Aunt May, I don’t want to interrupt, but later can you help me find something to wear to the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

May frowns, capping the nail polish bottle before asking, “How much time do we have? Is it on the Friday a few days after, or actually on the day, which I believe is a Tuesday?” She looks to Pepper for confirmation.

“Uh, I think it’s actually on the day of Valentine’s Day, from the posters around school,” he answers, looking between the two women.

“Shoot. You might just have to wear the suit from homecoming,” she says apologetically.

“Oh, no! You can’t do that-” Pepper starts, before covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry, that was a really entitled, rich bitch thing to say wasn’t it? Sorry, May, I know we talked about that…” she trails off, ashamed.

“No worries,” May says, smiling encouragingly at her. Peter is about to faint from hearing Ms. Potts say ‘bitch’, much less given the way May is responding to it.

“Alright, sounds good, see you guys later!” he rushes, dodging his way back to his room. He almost trips over MJ and Ned, who are kneeling together right by the edge of the door frame, straining their ears.

“What the _French toast_ ,” Ned and Peter breathe in unison, once the door is shut. MJ just looks wide-eyed at them both, keeping her own counsel.

\---

Peter’s first visit to the psychologist is the next week after that, and he marvels at the fact that Mr. Stark’s people were able to get him someone who would see him on a Saturday. It’s his weekend off, but he doesn’t mind 1) because this way therapy doesn’t cut into his after school patrols, and 2) this place is _lit_. Peter had managed to talk Mr. Stark down from a full-blown psychiatrist, pointing out that meds likely wouldn’t work on his metabolism and might even end up being dangerous if his blood levels got too out of whack.

The place he walks up to is just barely in Queens rather than Manhattan, and from what he can see, they are trying very hard to straddle the line between luxurious and authentically trendy. For instance, the place takes up the first three floors of the high rise. The top two are a mix of employee-only workspaces and patient-facing offices where clients are seen, and the lowest of the three floors houses a boxing ring and three separate heavy bags, as well as a quieter section of mats and blocks for stretching, tumbling, and yoga. At least, that’s what the very… well-groomed and effervescent… receptionist is saying, pointing at the elevator bank with his right hand (which is heavy with bracelets). Peter needs to go up one floor and register as a new patient, apparently.

“Although, I didn’t think we were taking new patients at all,” the cute guy adds, as Peter notices his even, white smile, “then again, what do I know? I’m just the so-called ‘Endorphin Architect’, which is feel-good doublespeak for ‘gym attendant’. It’s my second week here, oh, and my name is Baptiste.”

“Oh, uh, okay thanks. Nice to meet you, I’m Peter. Uh, Parker,” he says, mouth on autopilot while his eyes are roaming.

The dude’s dark brown eyes suddenly look as big as Reese’s peanut butter cups. “You’re Peter Parker? Oh, shit.”

There’s a pause, and then:

“Oh, fuck, I cursed in front of Peter Parker. Oh hell, I did it again- oh no-” Baptiste stutters.

“Uh, it’s okay Baptiste, but can you tell me how you know me?” Pete inquires, not sure that he’s ready for the answer.

“Well, you’re the reason I have this job!” he exclaims. “Tony Stark walked in here last week, apparently, and the old receptionist didn’t recognize him and was telling him he was on the wrong floor and did this _look_ like a place where people register for service? Strike one. Strike two, she insisted that we weren’t seeing any new patients, no matter how much money was on the table.”

Peter’s eyes are imitating the chocolate-y candy now, too.

Baptiste draws a breath and then continues, “And then, when her supervisor came over and helped her get you all registered, Mr. Stark told the manager that when Peter Parker came in this week, everyone better make you feel welcome or else.”

“And that counted as a strike?” Peter questions, feeling bad for the girl but also really good, in the same breath.

“Well, when she laughed in his face it did.”

“Oh.” Yeah, he could see how Tony saw that as a problem.

“Yeah, he was complaining that he was gonna be late for his out-of-state trip. But the good news is you’re already registered, so, um, as long as I haven’t offended you, you should be able to go right up to your counselor’s office, let me just check which one that is,” Baptiste says as his long, thick fingers glide over the computer’s keys.

“No, I’m not offended at all, and, um, actually if you could just treat me like a normal person, that would make me happiest of all,” Peter clarifies as he waits.

Baptiste looks away from the screen at that, and his eyes are normal now, but he’s blushing. “Sure thing, Mr. Parker.”

“Dude, I’m 15, don’t call me mister anything,” Peter replies, a touch shaken.

“Looks like you’re headed to 2C, on the second floor, obviously. And message received on the name thing…” Baptiste says, before his mouth twists mischievously and he adds, “… Mr. Parker.”

“Great. See ya,” Peter says, rolling his eyes after he turns to go. The back of his neck is warm and his hands are sweating.

“What? I call all the ‘normal-people’ clients by their titles,” is what he hears as he walks away.

\---

By the time Peter finally meets his counselor, a mousy woman named Rosalind with glasses and curly, reddish hair piled up in a twisting bun, he figures they won’t have much time left for anything besides getting the basics down. They introduce themselves and she goes over each of their rights and responsibilities. It’s pretty standard, and the gist of it is that he can tell her basically anything, except about Spider-Man (of course) or if he’s going to hurt himself or others (because then she’ll have to call a hospital, the police, or both). She talks to him about his schedule and how often they’ll be seeing each other. Rosalind also compliments him on appearing to be a very bright young man that she’s sure will make a lot of progress due to his honest and hardworking nature, which she says is easy to read on him.

Then, with the few minutes they have remaining, she intends to go over the reasons why he is pursuing therapy at this time. Apparently, all this is on the paperwork that Mr. Stark filled out for him and then insisted on scanning into their system himself, after a ‘personnel incident’, as Rosalind puts it, occurred at the gym-level reception desk. Mr. Stark, Rosalind explains, has listed Peter’s reasons for coming to the center as three-fold.

  * To get help with his anxiety attacks, and their root causes, which are TBD
  * To manage depressive thoughts and improve self-care and self-love habits
  * To address the possibility (and prevention) of PTSD; current symptoms include: disturbing nightmares, as well as sudden onset adolescent bed-wetting



Peter is so caught up in Mr. Stark actually writing, on paper, that he wants Peter to practice better ‘ _self-love’_ that he almost doesn’t pay enough attention to the third reason. Then:

“Wait, ‘ _bed-wetting’_ , what the fuck?” (Oh my god.)

And then he remembers the night with Cap’s washing machine at the compound, and starts laughing hysterically and can’t stop for several minutes, so he’s expecting the men in white jackets to come for him any time now.

On his way out of the office, red-faced from both laughter and having to explain to Rosalind about Mr. Stark’s mistaken assumption, Baptiste stops him.

“Mr. Parker? There’s one more thing,” he pipes up.

“Uh, yeah?” Peter smiles, in a great mood after all that.

“The heavy bags down here, there’s kind of a gimmick, to make sure they get worn out evenly and that people don’t take on too much weight for their strength? You have to register for one and then we have these tee shirts that correspond to their names for people to wear for their optional endorphin session after they’re done talking…” Baptiste explains, holding a folded tee in each hand. One has ‘Super-Ego’ and an angel emblazoned across the front, and the other says ‘Id’, with a horned devil graphic.

“Super-Ego is the lightest bag and Id is the heaviest. It, uh, didn’t really make sense to me but apparently Mr. Stark said he wasn’t sure if you wanted to be able to train like ‘the old you’ or ‘the new you’,” Baptiste continues, sounding for all the world like he had been memorizing Tony’s exact words since he started work there.

For some reason, it all slots into place in Peter’s brain and he picks up the shirt for the heaviest bag, thanking Baptiste over his shoulder as he almost struts out of the center. (Bite me, Mr. Stark.)

It’s not until he gets home to throw the new shirt in the wash that a slip of paper with the receptionist’s number, having been tucked into the folds of the garment, flutters to the floor.

\---

Peter backtracks through LinkedIn and Facebook to find someone named Baptiste that is employed at Working It Out Counseling Center and Athletics, but isn’t able to find anything. He puts off texting the number, although he does keep the paper, rationalizing that he can’t just get involved willy-nilly with someone that is clearly older than him. ( _Ha, ha ha, ha ha ha ha,_ his brain supplies.)

Instead, Peter focuses on planning the upcoming Operation Red Herring with MJ, Ned, and Ned’s date (a red-headed girl from another school whose name is Mary, but goes by her middle name, Jane). The plan is that MJ and Peter will go to dinner before heading to the dance together and make sure to take plenty of Instagram pictures for both of their accounts, to set the stage. Ned and Jane will scope out the dance to let Peter know, via Karen, when the ideal moment is to walk in. Then MJ and Peter should ‘fight’ over Peter making them late to the party for some reason and Jane will offer to dance with MJ ‘as friends’ while Ned is to spill his drink on Gwen’s date and maneuver the poor dude to the men’s room, to separate the couple. Hopefully if Gwen finds herself untethered, she’ll realize that not only can MJ move on with a built boy, but when that falls through, she can still dance sexy with a charming, mysterious red-head. If that’s not enough of a fire under her ‘heart-shaped’ butt, as MJ puts it, then nothing will be. It’s fool-proof.

Of course, when Peter tells Natasha about this plan for the dance, during his intervening weekend at the compound, she just about laughs herself silly.

“Ohhhh, spiderbait, you know there’s about 1000 points of failure to that plan, right?” she asks, smiling still.

They’ve just gotten done with combat training, and the sweat is pouring off Peter, but apparently there’s still room for his cheeks to heat to an even redder shade.

“What plan?” Tony asks, striding in like he owns the place. Oh, wait, he does.

Natasha flicks her newly blonde, sweat-damp hair back and relays the story as Peter sucks down water like he’s just traversed the Sahara.

As soon as she’s done, Mr. Stark approaches Peter and begins patting him down. Peter squirms, not wanting the older man to be grossed out by his sweat, and asks, “What are you doing?” (Please don’t pop a boner, please, please.)

“Do you have any electronics on you? Phone? Is Karen in your ear?” Tony asks, forgoing answering Peter in favor of bringing up his own questions.

“Noooo, I put them all away to train…” Peter says slowly, as Mr. Stark maneuvers him past the half-wall that separates the training area from the pool, by the elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, kid…” Mr. Stark replies, as dawning glee flashes over Natasha’s face.

“Then what are you-” is all he gets out before Tony places a large hand in the center of Peter’s chest. His spidey senses suddenly make the sweaty hairs on his arms struggle to stand up.

“Big breath!” Tony barks, grinning, and shoves Peter unceremoniously into the deep end of the pool.

“That’s for agreeing to go along with such an idiot plan,” Natasha teases, before doubling over at Peter’s sputtering as his head breaches the surface of the water.

At first, Peter’s heart sinks with dread as he feels the stirrings of another panic attack, but he staves it off, swimming over to the side of the pool and hanging on while he kicks his legs as a distraction. He centers his breathing the way Mr. Stark had helped him with and notices the faint chlorine scent of the water in his nose, so different from the brackish, garbage-y Bay, and it grounds him. He focuses on Tony’s red Chucks, on the little metallic gold lines that make them look like they’re the same design as his plated suit. The shoes get closer as Mr. Stark bends down in concern, breathing a gentle, “Pete?” as Natasha’s laughter cuts out.

It cuts right back in as Peter darts out a hand to wrap around Tony’s ankle, yanking forward with all his strength to make sure he gets Mr. Stark cleanly into the water with no injury. Other than to his pride, of course.

Pete telegraphs the movement just enough, slowing down his supernatural speed, to give Tony a chance to toss his StarkPhone to Natasha, across the corner of the pool. Thankfully, he’s not wearing smart-shades.

“Oh look, Nat, a _dead spider_!” He coughs out as he breaks the surface of the water after a thunderous splash. Peter turns around and pushes off the side of the pool with his legs, jetting towards the shallow end to evade Tony.

At that, Natasha strips off her hoodie and yoga tank, leaving her in black, knee-length leggings and a full-coverage sports bra. She toes off her sneakers and peels off the socks as she goes, not missing a step, and dives gracefully into the deep end, pushing off to catch Tony before Tony catches Peter. She has to defend her fellow arachnid, no matter how stupid his plan was.

An hour-and-a-half later, Tony and Peter both having slung shirts, socks, and shoes to the side of the pool, Pepper walks in asking if they are planning to stop for dinner or should she just sprinkle some fish food in the shallow end?

What a great day.

\---

The next day, before Natasha heads out, he corners her on the balcony where she is sipping strong, black coffee from a ‘blondes have more fun’ mug that Peter swears wasn’t in the compound’s kitchen last time. He feels emboldened by the comradery they have built during combat training, and especially during yesterday’s double-team attack on Tony.

“Can I ask you a question, Ms. Romanoff?” he begins.

“Only if you tell me why you insist on calling everyone by their title and last name,” she counters, voice even.

“Oh,” he flounders, not expecting that. “It’s just polite, I guess,” he offers, before deciding that a more complete answer kind of goes to the heart of his intended question anyway. “Also, uh, I can tell Mr. Stark really gets a kick out of it…” he adds, blushing pink in the morning light.

Natasha regards him quietly over the rim of her mug, before taking a sip. “Your question?” she prompts, apparently deciding not to touch that admission with a 10-foot pole.

“Do you think it’s okay to try and get over a crush by dating someone else? Like, is it unfair and/or does it work?” he blurts, voice small.

Her eyes show concern when she asks the follow-up question, “Is this about the dance? I thought that was just a set-up for this flighty blonde girl’s benefit? You’re not doing this because you’re hopelessly enamored of the snarky bisexual one, right? Michelle, was it?”

Peter knows very well that she remembers MJ’s name, and is just repeating it to gauge his micro expressions.

“No, no, no,” he denies, “I’m talking about something else. The gym guy at my counselor’s office gave me his number. But, I dunno…” he trails off, glancing a bit too long at the balcony door. He notices the light in the kitchen is on, but he doesn’t know if it’s Mr. Stark that’s now awake or if Pepper has come downstairs for some reason.

“Ah,” Natasha replies, eyes flicking back to meet his as they both look away from the door at the same time. “I see... It’s the _other_ snarky bisexual in your life.”

“No!” he says, too quickly, and then feels the confusion cross his face. “Wait, what?”

Natasha gazes at him, eyes soft, before commenting, “ _Oh_ , you didn’t know?”, and offers him a sip of her coffee in sympathy. He takes it, grimaces, and hands it back.

 Now she’s laughing quietly at him (which is just fantastic for his ego, thanks). “To answer your question, let me tell you a story.”

“Okay,” he acquiesces, settling down in his outdoor chair as she tips hers back on the rear legs. Her head falls back, blonde hair laying away from her open face, as she takes a deep breath. Nat agilely controls the movement of the chair with one foot hooked through the parallel bars railing off the balcony, while the other is drawn up for arms to wrap around, her knee to her chest.

“I was only 16 when I met Clint Barton. I had killed more men than there were candles on my birthday cake, several times over, and I was tired already. They had started me very young, even by the Red Room’s standards. I knew he was an American operative, and it was my job to seduce him. I tried everything; I was shameless. I tried acting older than I was, and when that didn’t work, younger than I was. He was 28 at the time, and little did I know that his mission was to seduce me as well.”

She smiles at the irony, as Peter sits there, horrified to his core, but drawn to the story even so.

“The US wanted to make me an unwitting asset, and he was to be my handler,” the Black Widow continues. “As we flirted, each pressing our advantages, driving towards our goals, I didn’t fall in love with him _per se_ , but I did imagine what it would be like to be with a man, an American man, a man with morals and training. I think I liked it that he wouldn’t touch me unless I begged, and even then, he seemed reticent, aloof. It was so unusual for a man to withstand me, you see.”

She smiles, and it’s a sharp thing, self-deprecating. Peter nods, as if to say, _What happened next?_

“We concocted a plan together to get me out of Russia, while leading both of our countries on. Russia thought I was leaving to steal secrets stateside, and the United States was under the impression that Barton was completely uncompromised and had succeeded in his mission. Once in the states, he told me the truth, that he had been in the early stages of seeing a woman his age, Laura, when he’d been sent to Russia. He said he wanted to keep seeing her, but that he’d brought me here because he saw my potential, not because he was in love with me. I asked him if she was better than me, or stronger, and do you know what he said?” she asked.

“No, what?” Peter prompts, hanging on Natasha’s words.

“He said that he didn’t know. That he didn’t know how anyone _could_ be stronger than me. But, he said, he had to find out and anyway, he couldn’t be with a 16-year-old spy as a 28-year-old handler. I was crushed, even though I had been conning him too, or so I thought. He ended up marrying Laura and we built a friendship, a level of professional respect, over many years. And then, fairly recently, I found myself drawn to Dr. Bruce Banner who is, ironically, even older than Clint. What a life I’ve led,” she sighs, finished with the story, before adding, “So you see, I know from experience how it feels to be the second choice. It feels exactly the same as not being in the running at all.”

“Why are you trusting me with this, Ms. Romanoff? Your entire origin story?” he breathes, not ready to examine the story itself and the associated emotional fallout, just yet.

Natasha’s chair _clunks_ back down to all four legs as she stands, before she bends towards him and takes his chin in her hand, green eyes piercing into his.

“Because, sweet little spider, who would you tell?” she answers, smiling to make sure he knows she doesn’t mean the malice, but _does_ mean the words. “Who would believe you?”

He ponders that in silence for a moment as she walks away, making to head back inside with her empty coffee cup.

“And call me Natasha like a normal human, spiderbait.”

\---

The weekend goes alright, otherwise, with Mr. Stark giving him a detailed tour of the lab before leaving him alone in it to work. The warmth in Peter’s chest from that gesture of trust only flares hotter when Tony tosses a command to FRIDAY as he leaves.

“FRIDAY, drop Peter’s needle,” Tony says and winks at him through the clear glass enclosing the lab before starting for the stairs.

“Playing the _‘Educate that Post-Millennial, Poste-Haste’_ playlist, sir,” FRIDAY announces, as AC/DC starts up. As Peter watches his sample react and set, taking notes, the song fades out and a familiar song by Fall Out Boy begins. He figures out the pattern quickly; it appears Mr. Stark is rewarding him for getting through old man music by alternating it with more modern bops.

Peter wants to try a different concentration of his active chemical, something more slow-acting so the stickiness doesn’t fade too fast. He sets up the experiment and waits, warmth in his chest growing further still as another classic hit begins. He feels so good that he whips out his phone to text Baptiste, impulsive. What he got from Nat’s story is that he should make a clear choice and go for that, not hanging onto what will probably never happen with Mr. Stark. It makes sense, because would Peter even want to do something with Mr. Stark? (Yes, yes you would, his mind pipes up.) He pauses, phone in hand, with his messaging app already open.

Well, yeah. But even knowing now that Mr. Stark is apparently not totally heterosexual, he already has his Laura, and that’s Pepper. They’re engaged; there’s no room for Peter in that way. Peter likes Ms. Potts, too, so really, what else is there to do? (Nothing.)

He texts the number Baptiste gave him, “What’s up? It’s Peter. Peter Parker.”

The reply only takes less than a minute to arrive. It says, “Hi, Mr. Parker. I’m not working today, but I was yesterday. Where were you?”

“Oh, I won’t be there every Sat, just once a month. My counselor even gave me hmwrk, lol. And Peter’s fine, srsly, how old are you? Older than me, for sure.”

“I’m 18. On my own ‘cause I aged out of foster care, gotta pay the bills somehow. My parents died when I was a baby, on 9/11.”

“Oh, wow. Mine too. I mean, not on 9/11, but they died. Plane crash. I live w/ my aunt.”

“Sucks, but cool that you have your aunt. Do you live close to the center? Or nah? if you don’t is that why you don’t come every week?”

Peter smiles at how much they already have in common, sad as it all is, and how interested Baptiste seems even though Peter took his time reaching out. His smile fades, though, as he looks up from adding Baptiste to his contacts to see his sample smoking faintly, totally dissolved and burnt into the bottom of the beaker. He’s left it too long.

After cleaning up carefully and salvaging the glass, Peter returns to the convo. Baptiste has texted back a sheepish apology, “Didn’t mean to pry, don’t be weirded out. I just like you.”

“I like you too,” Peter texts back. “I’m just at my Stark Internship now, that’s why I didn’t reply right away. No worries. And that’s why I don’t come every week to the center, not the distance. We live in Forest Hills. Hbu?”

“Cool, I’m glad you like me, Peter. Listen, I g2g, landlord’s knocking. See you soon,” Baptiste responds, rapidly signing off. But then, a second message:

“Happy early Valentine’s Day, btw,” it says, with a little red devil emoji, like on his gym shirt, and a pink heart.

Peter’s still smiling as FRIDAY clicks over to Taking Back Sunday’s song, Liar, one he recognizes. It’s his reward, but he didn’t even hear the older song that came before it.

(Oh well.)

\---

When Peter gets home that night, after several hours in the lab that had been more productive than the first one, he’s too exhausted to even pack up his stuff for school the next day, like he normally does.

On Monday, however, he walks home from the subway stop, in the cold, to grab his suit (which he’d forgotten) to find May home from work early, with Pepper Potts stretched out on her stomach on May’s queen-sized bed. Pepper’s legs are up and crossed at the ankle, high-heels abandoned on the bed behind her, and she’s propped up on her elbows, face watching May and smiling. (Oh no, bizarro-world again, what the hell?)

Even worse, May’s cleaning out Ben’s old closet, holding things up side-by-side for Pepper to vote on. The radio is on, playing jazz, and there are two glasses of chilled white wine sweating rings onto May’s dresser.

The radiators must be cranked past what Aunt May usually says they can afford, because Peter is burning up, and he’s mad about that too. His senses pick up Pepper’s intake of breath, before either of them has noticed he’s home, and in a split-second he knows she’s going to let out that tinkling laugh again. He wants to ruin that, so he does.

“Am I on drugs or is nothing making any sense, anymore?” Peter starts, stepping into the bedroom, quiet even though he wants to be loud. May frowns severely at the dead-sounding tone of his voice and starts to explain, but her mouth drops open when Peter gets impatient and turns to Pepper, jumping ahead with, “Are you and Mr. Stark planning to screw my aunt together, or is this just for you?”

They’re both shocked into silence, and Peter guesses it must be because this is so unlike him. He waves at that thought as it passes by, in his mind, cognitive dissonance loud and thumping in his temples and chest.

He turns to May and asks, “And you? Were you going to hold out for the guest-of-honor treatment at the compound, or just desecrate Ben’s bed? You know… like you’re doing to his closet?”

He leaves it at that as he slams, superhuman speed active, into his own bedroom. He hears May shout a stream of expletives as she drops the suit jackets she’d been holding. He grabs his shooters and hears her rapid footsteps; they’re coming his way quickly, so he webs his door shut. He’s changing into his suit as she pounds on the cheap wood, and he crawls out the window, backpack in tow, before he catches more than his full name, dropping angry from her mouth, “Peter Benjamin Parker-!!!”

But he’s already gone.

\---

Peter heads to the Tower on autopilot, not because he thinks it’s a good idea, but because he knows it isn’t. He knows Mr. Stark will come to talk to him, and he knows it’s going to be a knock-down, drag-out fight. (Good.)

He takes off the spider suit, knowing Mr. Stark is probably going to take it again, and finds that he doesn’t really care. He leaves the web-shooters on, so he can escape if he absolutely has to, and besides they belong to him really, not Stark. He even takes Karen out of his ear and places her carefully on top of the folded spider suit.

Pete goes into the bathroom on the main floor, just wanting to splash some water on his face, finding that he’s broken out into a cold sweat at the anticipation balling up in his stomach. He changes into the extra clothes that are in his backpack, not having planned for this, which turns out to be quick-drying school gym shorts and the tee shirt from his counseling center. He’s freezing in the light clothing, and for some detached reason, he turns on the hot water for the large tub, wanting to warm up the room. He sits on the edge as he waits for the tub to fill. He texts Baptiste, just for something to do, and asks, “Everything alright with your landlord?” then adds an impulsive, “Need company?”

His wrists itch as he types, from where he had to put the web shooters on the tighter size setting, to make up for the lack of bulk from the suit usually being underneath. They’re way too tight and he scratches his arm absently, staring as the water rushes out of the faucet and steam forms all around him. It just makes the itch worse.

“Sure, yeah, you mean like now?” comes the reply from Baptiste and Pete just texts back the affirmative because he’s too keyed up to type more, and his arms are really stinging now, no matter how hard he scratches. Peter hears a huge crash from somewhere he doesn’t care about, as he puts his phone into the zippered sport pocket of his gym shorts so he can really give his arms a good scratch without dropping the device, before he hears a sharp intake of breath and looks up.

“…Parker?” Mr. Stark asks, sounding scared and angry all at once. The Iron Man armor is falling back, revealing suit and a blood red tie. He doesn’t take a step towards Peter, odd, but he does put his hands up as if he’s confronting an animal.

“What.”

Peter is completely deadpan, voice not even rising to make it into a question, and instead of making Stark angrier, as he intended, his impudence seems to frighten the older man further.

Before Mr. Stark can speak, Peter continues, “I know I fucked up. The suit and Karen are on the couch. I’m just trying to warm up in here, then I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

“Peter,” Tony starts, flinching, but keeping his voice low and even, “you’re right that I don’t appreciate finding out you talked to Pepper or your aunt that way, but it’s going to be okay. You should keep Karen, for sure, and if you come out into the living room, we can sit and talk about the suit, okay?”

“What’s the point? You said it yourself, I only need her because of my ‘condition’,” Peter retorts, holding up his hands and turning his palms and forearms towards Tony to do the air quotes. They’re still fucking itching and he drops the gesture to scratch, sighing. His phone vibrates twice in his pocket, in quick succession. ( _Once for no, twice for yes please._ )

Tony looks alarmed, swearing with as much vehemence as Peter’s ever heard from him.

“Fuck, Peter, look at yourself. Just come out here with me, okay?” he pleads and takes a large step forward.

Peter balks and stands up so fast that he’s suddenly dizzy. Mr. Stark grabs for him and Peter steadies himself, one hand on a broad shoulder and the other grasping his tie. Disoriented and fascinated, Peter pulls at the knot until the red tie slips off Mr. Stark’s shoulder to curl in Peter’s hands, like a crumpled snake. Mr. Stark freezes in place, eyebrows climbing as he looks down at Peter’s pale face.

As Tony’s brow furrows and he looks away from Peter to turn off the bathtub tap, Peter realizes what he’s just done, and he immediately steps back, taking the tie with him. He cannot believe this is his life right now, and starts laughing, staring into the middle distance as Mr. Stark swears again, and starts pulling his unresisting body out into the living room. For whatever reason, the older man stops to grab a huge pile of toilet tissue off the roll that still lives in the bathroom. As he’s gently maneuvered to the leather couch, Peter ties the tie into a Windsor knot around his own neck, like he and May had agonized over the night of homecoming. This frustrates Mr. Stark who grunts as he tries to keep the tissue pressed to Pete’s arms, to stop him from fussing with the tie, Peter guesses.

As they finally sit, Peter notices that the glass balcony door is broken inwards, as if someone hadn’t bothered to open it before coming through it.

“Kid, you have to talk to me. What made you so angry at May and Pepper? What can I do to help?” Mr. Stark asks, from very far away.

Peter looks up and peers at Mr. Stark. His face is blurry, like Peter is underwater, and _god_ he can’t fucking take this right now. He doesn’t want another fucking _drowning lesson_ of a panic attack, another suffocation. And it is suffocating, this kindness and gentleness that Mr. Stark is putting on for him, for some godforsaken reason. He can’t make sense of it, not when he knows he was such a colossal horse’s ass to Mr. Stark’s fucking _fiancée_ and his own goddamn guardian.

Peter reaches out and presses his palm to the center of Tony’s chest, thinking of when their situations had been reversed, when Tony had been happy and playful and had checked him over before dumping him in the pool. He’s very surprised when he takes his hand away and the man’s crisp, white dress shirt has a red handprint on it, like a first-grader’s Thanksgiving painting. (Oh, Peter’s bleeding. Huh.)

Mr. Stark’s hand wraps around the outside of Peter’s wrist, stopping him from moving too far away. His other hand comes up and presses the wad of tissue to the underside of Pete’s arm, again. “Kid, please talk to me. We can fix this. I can talk May around, and Pepper’s surprised at what happened, sure, but she’s used to my shit. She’s had a lot worse. Everyone loves you, come on.”

Peter watches Mr. Stark’s mouth as he speaks, watches almost in slow-motion as the man forms the word ‘loves’, and flicks his own eyes up to meet Stark’s as the sentence finishes. Yeah, Pete’s calling bullshit on that one, not after everything that he’s done today.

He pushes his bloody palm forward to meet its handprint again, shoving Mr. Stark back, hard, and darts through the broken-out door to drop over the railing of the balcony. He doesn’t even think of concealing his identity as he slings a web at a nearby building, jerking himself out of freefall and away into the city. He still has his now-natural night-vision and spidey grip, so he hustles into the subway system and crawls along the roof of the tunnels, death blasting past him below, and knows that even Iron Man won’t follow him into this particular dark. At a maintenance off-shoot he checks his phone, and skips past the myriad of messages from May, Tony, Happy, and even an unregistered number that must be Pepper’s phone. He clocks the two texts from Baptiste, consisting of a confirmation that he can come over, and a second message with an address and general cross street, and heads in that direction.

(Fuck it, might as well.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's 'Educate That Post-Millennial, Post-Haste' playlist is here: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_gnEycVceE4y0Qq4Hj_cMp


	6. And you might have to tell me again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, mind the updated tags and keep yourselves safe.
> 
> This chapter is the one in which I make my bid to get the 'ride to church' anon to comment on this story, primarily by torturing Peter. There, my dreams and aspirations are laid bare. Whump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for torture, violence, mentions of infidelity and generally tense situations all around
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Satellite Mind - Metric
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

By the time Peter reaches the cross-streets Baptiste gave him, he’s calmed some, but not quite enough. He darts into a Starbucks, aware of how he looks, to clean off the blood from his arms. He washes up in the bathroom, examining the two once-deep sets of four gouges each, one set per arm. They match up with the spacing of his own fingers and the jagged, bitten-off nails that May had futilely told him to trim. He imagines how the blood must have looked to Mr. Stark, dripping into the steaming bathtub. Peter thinks of the scene from _13 Reasons Why_ and feels his gorge rise. Why did Peter not realize what he was doing?

Since the slashes made by his own super-strength have since, thankfully, super-healed into raised pinkish lines, Peter heads toward the address he was given. It’s only as he enters the run-down building, self-conscious as all get out as his arm hairs prick up again in anticipation, that he realizes he’s still wearing Tony’s red tie. He’s so pre-occupied with making his frozen fingers work, to no avail, at getting the stupid thing off that he doesn’t notice the printed names of the residents on the bank of mailboxes to his left. Pete doesn’t realize that he’s just passed up his last chance to recognize the fact that apartment 1F, the one he’s headed to, belongs to one Baptiste Bisbée.

The door to 1F opens almost as soon as Peter finishes knocking, and Baptiste kisses him hard, their teeth clacking together, and pulls him further into the tiny flat by his jaw. Pete find this all… surprisingly forward… but not entirely unwelcome after the day he’s had, or at least he doesn’t find it unwelcome until the loosened silk around his neck is suddenly tightened to within an inch of its life. It’s hard to swallow past the tie, cutting into his Adam’s apple as it does, as Peter opens his eyes and looks into the hard expression marring the formerly bubbly face of the gym attendant/receptionist.

“Good to finally meet you for real, Spider-Man. You’ve met my father,” is the last thing he hears before a needle punctures through the tie at the side of his neck and injects him with something that probably isn’t just saline.

\---

When Peter wakes, he’s groggy and his shoulders are sore from where his arms are bound up to a metal chair. The dank-ass warehouse they’ve got him in looks like somewhere the easy friend-of-the-heroine in a horror film would get dismembered.

He stops that train of thought in its tracks, trying to calm his breathing. He inhales deeply, grateful that he seems to be alone in the very dark room. It makes it easier to imagine that Mr. Stark is there with him, that they’re about to escape together, as soon as Pete finishes blowing out through the straw. ( _Good boy_ , he wishes he could hear, one last time.)

The inky view out the high, drop-down windows, which Peter can only make out due to his excellent night vision, proves that it’s either night or early morning. He thinks it’s been less than 24 hours, since for it to be any longer with his metabolism, they would have to have given him an entire bucket of whatever had been in the injection.

He continues to take stock of the situation, wishing the chair was wooden and not steel, but grateful that he’s still wearing the gym shorts. At least he’s not been changed into different clothes. (Or no clothes at all).

However, Peter’s missing his shirt, and freezing. He wonders why they took it, until his awareness filters fully back in and he realizes there are thin, stinging cuts all up and down his chest. Also, his nose is maybe-broken, and Peter ponders how much blood he can lose today, without even being conscious of it happening. He’s very dizzy.

 _Mr. Stark’s tie is gone_ , is what he thinks before his head spins and a darkness blacker than the room swallows him up again.

Peter floats, and dreams:

He’s stumbling on an alien planet, maybe-Mars but maybe-not, rusty red dust puffing into the air on each step, a feeling of dread burning low in his stomach. He vomits and it’s probably bay water again, but no, too clear; it’s as clean as bathwater although faintly pinkish-red. (“For Valentine’s Day,” his id whispers.)

Peter’s arms sting where they clutch his midsection as he heaves, and when he pulls his clasped hands away from his own navel, he’s holding a double-sided, hinged switchblade. Both points are bent in, set to have punctured his gut, like pincers. From this Peter knows he’ll die slower than most. The well of blood in his cupped palms married with the four stinging lines that slice up each arm, looks like nothing so much as a bloody, elongated spider.

He coughs blood, bile, and bathwater again, eyes closing, and when he next looks up, the water is surrounding him. Peter’s in a tank, on display, gym shorts bedazzled and fluttering in the metallic-tasting water. He’s chained to the bottom of the tank, and a spotlight refracts through the glass and water, casting a rainbow gleam over the padlock that he supposes is part of the show. In the crowd, Pete sees Aunt May and Pepper Potts, both in white wedding dresses, toasting with champagne flutes as they enjoy his performance. Tony is next to them, sunglasses on and smiling. He’s chewing charmingly on a cocktail toothpick that must have once pierced an olive or tiny onion, grin lopsided as he mouths the word ‘twink’, and Peter blames the fact that he must have been drinking on how long it takes Mr. Stark to reach out and flick his right hand. Nanobots coalesce into the Iron Butler hand and it flies over and presses, palm-first, on the glass. The charging repulsor throws the glow of white-blue light against Peter’s face, and he shuts his eyes against both it and the shattering glass, as he spills out of the display tank, stray shards thinly slicing his chest.

When he dares to open his eyes again, hyper-aware of the sharp crunching under his knees, he finds the frame of a broken mirror in front of him, and there’s a second mirror behind that one. Instead of his reflection, it’s showing a teenaged Natasha, hair still red and pulled back in a ballerina’s bun. “Ain’t that a kick in the head,” she drawls, Russian accent much stronger than he’s used to, before she rises delicately on one satiny pointe shoe, her other leg bent back behind her head. She lets the leg come gracefully down, foot crossing in front of the other before turning in a slow circle. By the time she’s facing him again, Nat’s pulled a black handgun from… somewhere… (“Hammerspace, _duh_ ,” MJ scoffs in his ear) and then suddenly the Black Widow’s shot him right between the eyes, execution-style.

Peter wakes on a gasp, stomach rolling, as he’s chained in a rusted, but intact, cast iron bathtub. It’s daytime, and he’s still in the custody of two francophone psychos. It comes to him, like being hit by a fucking bus, that he dreamed the gunshot due to the sound, in real life, of Émile Bisbée testing out his weapon of choice. It’s one of those heavy-duty nail-guns that uses a .22 round of ammunition to fire nails and rivets through, like, metal or solid concrete. Peter’s seen them, fascinated by the gunpowder-actuated mechanism, when he’s walked by construction sites in the past. ( _Fuck, fuck, fuck…_ )

The next shot goes through his hand, which has been stretched and taped up to rest on the wide, rolled lip of the tub, even though his back is touching the cold of the tub floor. Peter screams so loud and so long that it doesn’t even sound real, and after a moment of harsh breathing, he says to himself faintly, “Wow, who’s screaming?”

He thinks he might pass out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees a familiar, braceleted arm come down, hand holding a syringe of something. He doesn’t even turn his head or try to bite or anything, anticipating the sweet relief of unconsciousness, but it must be ephedrine or adrenaline or something in the syringe, because instead of 11, now everything is turned up to like 48, or some other such fuckery.

He couldn’t pass out, now, if his captors demanded it. And, oh, there are bricks taped to his chest in a perfect pattern. God. Had the tiny, thin cuts on his chest before, now healed, been a template? Had they been counting how many bricks to grab?

The other three nails go in quicker, if no less painfully, and then Peter is bolted by hands and feet to the tub, knees up and spread to accommodate his feet resting on the rim like his hands. He’s breathing so hard between vocalizations that the bricks on his chest are rising and falling, despite the immense weight, and his head is thumping painfully on the bottom of the tub as he screams and screams and screams. Once he’s caught his breath:

“What do you mother _fuckers_ ,” he spits, using the word for the very first time in his life, “want from me? I got you arrested for stealing that lady’s purse, but I didn’t fucking torture you like this is the _Saw_ franchise, did I?” ( _Humor, humor is good. Use that. Stay sane,_ the voice in his head says, and it sounds an awful lot like Natasha, today.)

The father-son duo shares a look, before Baptiste pipes up. “You’re right, _mon amour_ ,” he sneers, laying it on thick, “this _is_ just like that movie, because you have a choice to make. Hands or lungs?” He fucking laughs, afterward. Peter wonders, nonsensically, if this douche is even queer.

Émile drags a hose over to the tub, and Baptiste tapes it to the side, as brownish water begins to pour into the tub to sluice, cold cold cold, up Peter’s back and into his hair.

The son of a bitch uses a second piece of duct tape to seal Peter’s mouth shut. It stops his teeth chattering so much, small mercies.

“And now it’s your turn to listen,” Émile smirks. “Your egotistical little ass thinks this is about one little arrest? _Oh, mon Dieu, non._ You fucked with the Montréal mob, _bébé_. The carjacking is the distraction, and the woman in powder blue makes sure she has enough of hubby’s money on hand. We keep her in ketamine, and she’s one of nearly three hundred rich bitch junkies in the city that keeps getting her purse snatched and not calling it in. It gets returned a few days later, with the product inside. If she gets caught, the police can’t prove it’s hers and not the thief’s. Too bad our carjacker flipped when he saw you, you little freakshow, and gave me up. Almost blew the whole operation, and then Iron Man steps in, fan-fucking-tastic.”

Peter’s head is starting to pound, ears dipping underwater. The sludge is rising, and he knows they want him to try to pull himself up, above the water level. Goddamnit.

He tries, marginally, wailing through taped mouth at the strain it puts on his hands, pulling the bolts against his carpals and metacarpals.

Fortunately, Bisbée the elder grabs him by the throat and lifts him incrementally, to tell him one last thing, taking the strain off Peter’s hands and putting it on his neck instead. The back of his skull is still kissing the surface of the grimy water.

“We finally were able to tail Iron Man to the shrink’s office and watch him throw his puny weight around to get you a spot in the cuckoo’s nest. When they fired that girl, it was too easy to get my boy here in with the temp-to-hire service that place uses. Stark even told the company your name and filled out all that paperwork, Baptiste heard. He must love you very much, _pétit pédé_ … I hope he finds your body. He might even get your corpse unbolted before the bombs go off, wouldn’t that be sweet? You’ll burn together.”

And with that, the older man drops him back into the muck, making ready to go and arm the explosives. The thick splash rings in Peter’s ears, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of breaking glass.

It’s Natasha, thank fucking god, that he sees when he levers himself up, breathing like an injured horse through his nose. She’s come in through the high windows, dropping down across the room, before rising to face the two Québecois men. Émile has the .22-powered nail-gun trained on her, but when she clocks what caliber it is, eyes sharp even at a distance, she visibly determines it’s too puny to hurt much, even factoring in the nail. Peter wants to tell her she’s wrong, _so_ wrong, but he can barely see her, really, at this angle, and he lets himself drop back down with a splash.

She gets off a shot, killing Baptiste instantly, before the father fires. The nail projectile and coupled bullet rip through Nat’s side and Peter groans through the adhesive again. His nose bubbles as the water overtakes him. Why didn’t she shoot the father first?

Natasha’s still down, but Bisbée isn’t coming for her, having gone to his son’s body, by the time Peter yanks himself back up. He’s straining to see above the lip of the tub, when he hears it. He hears him.

“Stay down, kid!” comes Mr. Stark’s shout, as he pounds through the door, the upper windows too small for the suit to slip through. He steps in front of Nat with his right-hand energy cannon trained on the mob lackey.

As he gets closer to the piece of shit, Stark growls, “I’m glad we planned for your only son to die first. I’m glad you had to see it, _caca boudin_. That’s all _on you_.”

Peter doesn’t see, but he feels the pulse in the water and in his body as the sobbing Bisbée gets, basically, disintegrated. Seconds later, a metal-armored forearm smashes through the side of the tub, causing the water to pour out and one of Pete’s still-bolted hands to come free. The world goes black.

\---

When he wakes, the lights are bright as hell, fluorescent. He can hear them buzzing. He doesn’t know why he picks that detail to focus on, over the myriad of other sounds that come filtering in, seconds later, such as the whir of medical equipment, but that’s what Peter does.

A Korean woman with a tablet in her hand looks up as he groans, low and long, in the back of his throat. Her eyes go wide and, quietly but firmly, she hisses, “Mr. Stark!”

The words rouse the man, sleeping in an uncomfortable-looking chair, near the end of the bed. “Is he awake? So help me god, if he’s not awake, Dr. Cho…,” Tony threatens.

“I’m awake,” Peter coughs, voice gravelly. The effort makes his body vibrate in pain, and his head slumps back to where he’d lifted it, minutely, from. “I kinda wish I wasn’t.”

“Your injuries have mostly healed, it’s _amazing_ , your ability,” Dr. Cho breathes, “but you’ll still experience widespread soreness for some days. It’s a common after-effect of torture.”

 _Torture._ The word is ugly, echoing in Peter’s mind.

While Dr. Cho was speaking, Tony fired off a text to Pepper. Now, he shifts his chair toward the head of the bed, and collapses back into it.

One look at his face, soft even under the harsh lights, and Peter begins to cry. Dr. Cho looks at her tablet for a moment, face going kind of square and puzzled, and then beats a hasty retreat.

“Hey, hey, hey sweetheart, it’s okay, you’re safe now…” Tony starts, looking vaguely out of his depth, before a door bangs open down the hall, and then the door to the room flies open as well.

Peter can’t tell who is dragging whom, but May and Pepper burst in. Seeing that he’s not hooked up to anything (since safe doses of pain meds would just burn right through his system, probably), May immediately climbs next to him in the bed, on the other side from Mr. Stark, and wraps herself around Peter. She shushes him like she used to do when he was younger and it makes him feel so much worse and so much better, all at once.

“Aunt May, Aunt May, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I said those things, and I’m sorry I skipped out, and I’m sorry I got kidnapped, and _I love you all so much_ -” he starts blubbering, voice hoarse, and Tony stops him with a hand on his chest, rubbing his sternum the way you do to wake up drunk people. It snaps Peter’s attention to the older man as May makes more shushing sounds.

“Drink some of this, kiddo, here you go, attaboy,” he says, holding out a plastic cup full of water, with a straw, and helping Peter to drink.

Peter sighs in relief, throat soothed, as May takes a moment to wipe her own eyes, glancing toward the other woman in the room. Pepper is leaning against the door heavily. Pete’s not sure if it’s because she doesn’t feel welcome, or because she’s trying to bodily keep all the bad things in the world from this room. (It’s both, again.)

He tries again, “Ms. Potts, I’m so sorry I said those things, it was really rude. I just felt like everyone I love has someone else they would rather be with than me, but that’s no excuse.”

Pepper smiles at him, a little sad and a little stressed, and says, “Peter, there’s a bomb that didn’t go off in the Bronx because Natasha and Tony love you so much that they shot first and asked questions afterwards.”

Peter looks to Mr. Stark, at that. “It’s true, kid. C4. They were getting ready to arm it; do you remember any of that?”

“I remember… I remember him saying he hoped you would find my body first.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes close, lips a thin line, and he inhales deep through the nose. “Okay, _fuck_.”

But Peter’s mind is already filling in the rest, and he jerks up, jarring his shoulders and his, well, his _everywhere_ really, to ask, “Natasha? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, baby,” Aunt May answers. “Turns out the Black Widow is really tough, and I even got to meet her, finally!” The girlish note of glee that she allows into her voice is clearly for his benefit, to cheer him up, but it works so Peter allows it.

“Oh, yeah?” Peter smiles tiredly, “Should Ms. Potts be getting jealous?”

There’s a silence, and Pete’s hackles start to rise, senses tingling. Mr. Stark soothes a hand up his back, before resting it on the back of his neck, when he sees. May uses her right hand to press on his chest and Peter eases back down onto his pillow, with their help, while he awaits whatever news is headed his way.

“Um, kid,” Tony starts, haltingly, “why don’t we start out at the beginning?”

Peter hums, knowing they’re rapidly getting to the part of this FUBAR’d soap opera where he’ll have to say what happened to him. ‘Debriefing’.

“What you saw when you came home,” May begins, more gently than he suspects he deserves, “was Pepper helping me look through Ben’s old suits. Most of them are too small for you, since you’ve put on so much muscle from your powers. Pepper was going to get you a suit custom-made out of some of the fabric cut together cleverly, leaning on the design Tony drew months ago. She remembered what you said about Ben’s things being important to you.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and is glad he’s laying down, Tony’s hand still warm under his neck, because he feels dizzy and ashamed. Mr. Stark squeezes gently.

“I wanted you to have something nice for the Valentine’s dance, after I was rude and implied the one you wore to homecoming wasn’t good enough,” Pepper states quietly.

“Pepper and I are just friends…” May finishes, trailing off. “She was really nice to me the night you burnt the crap out of your hand,” she adds.

Peter focuses on the steadying grip of Mr. Stark’s hand at the top of his spine.

“Your Aunt May was kind enough to let me have a sleep over since it was so late by the time we hit Queens, coming all the way from Albany, that night,” Pepper explains.

At that, Mr. Stark’s hand tenses, and he pulls it away from Peter’s neck, saying, “I thought you came home?”

Peter mourns the loss and remembers that night and how the older man’s eyes had bored through the ceiling towards Pepper’s bedroom, betraying his desire to check on her, when they’d been in the laundry room talking.

“Oh, I thought you would have checked with FRIDAY,” Pepper replies. Her voice is even, but she doesn’t look at anyone, rooting around in her bag instead. She pulls out an older model StarkPhone and tosses it to May. “Courtesy of Stark Industries; the Canadians smashed your old one in that run-down apartment, sorry Peter.”

Mr. Stark puts his hand back on Peter, at the shoulder this time, but doesn’t look at him as he says, “No worries, kid, I can clone most of your phone back from FRIDAY’s cloud. That was how we found the address.” Tony watches carefully as Pepper touches one of the short, rounded edges of Peter’s footboard, and leaves.

“Oh, you went there, to the apartment?” Peter asks, selfishly wanting Mr. Stark’s eyes back on him, in the wake of Ms. Potts’s departure.

“Yes, even I went; The Hulk couldn’t have stopped me,” Aunt May answers, as she slips off to the side to grab the other chair, the empty one that Pepper had never availed herself of. She sits, pulling her legs up and crossing them at the ankle, and Peter absent-mindedly follows the movement.

It’s the sight of her familiar ballet flats, the ones she wears so much that grey imprints of her feet, he knows, have formed on the inside… that’s what does it. He starts crying again, hating it, and blurts, “I’m so sorry Aunt May, he was nice to me at the counseling center, that’s how they found me, and I just didn’t want to be alone-”

This time, it’s Tony that shushes him, although the man’s face has gone pale. “Hush, Pete, now what did you say? We knew he was the gym attendant, from Nat, and CCTV showed us that the other guy was the prick’s father, but we thought it was just a, well, erm- a sexually-motivated snatch job. Multi-generational psychos and a distressed at-risk target.”

May’s hands are shaking where she’s holding onto him. No, wait. Peter’s hands are shaking and she’s just holding on.

“No, Mr. Stark, they knew who I was. Didn’t you recognize the last name from the combo carjacking and purse thing you helped me with, oh, no…,” Peter says, realizing that the carjacking accomplice had outed Émile Bisbée before Iron Man had arrived. “It was way back in October…”

Recognition floods Tony’s face, and his hand clenches, twisting the seams at the shoulder of Peter’s soft tee shirt.

“They were keeping tabs on you for months,” Peter continues to explain, “and when you registered me at the center and that woman got fired, they set it up so the son would be hired by the temp agency. They were French Canadian mob. We interfered in their ketamine scheme. The blue bimbo from October is a customer, the one that was all over you?”

May has removed her hands from Peter’s and has them pressed together and steepled, prayer-like. They’re pressing against the end of her nose and between her eyebrows, as her eyes remain shut. Peter shares a look with Mr. Stark.

“Aunt May?” he pipes up, and she opens her eyes. “What time is it?” he asks, just to get her to think of something else.

“Uh, I think it’s almost 2:00pm, sweetness,” she answers. “You were out for over 24 hours while you were healing.”

“If it’s alright with Mr. Stark,” he begins, eyes flicking between the two adults, “can you get with Pepper and arrange for driverless transport to get MJ and Ned? I really, really want to see them later, or tomorrow, whatever you can swing.”

Tony nods and May stands up, grateful for a task, “Of course, hon, be back soon.”

They both wait for May to leave and then Peter gets the shock of his life when Mr. Stark gathers him up, just for a second, and breathes him in.

“Uh…”

“I’m not giving you a hug, kid, just making sure your pillows are comfortable enough; I have a feeling this is going to be a rough story. Go ahead, questions?”

“What did you find at the apartment, to make you think it was, um, motivated the way you thought it was?” Peter asks, first.

“Oh, uh, your shirt for one thing. Crime scene techs said it looked like someone had made a bunch of little cuts to either the back or the chest area, from the blood spatter. Dr. Cho figures they were right, and that part happened there if it happened at all, because there wasn’t a scratch on you, not like that anyway, when we got you here.”

“Okay… yeah that makes sense,” Peter guts out, trying to keep his breathing steady for Mr. Stark. He wants to be good, wants to feel good again after so long of feeling crappy.

“We, uh, also found my tie,” Mr. Stark continues. “That’s how we found you in the Bronx, actually, we had some CCTV to know when they left the apartment, but not enough to track. The tie had your blood on it, from the, uh… from the Tower. Crime scene took it for samples and found a weird little pinhole, but they didn’t know what to do with that. FRIDAY was the one who found the fluid stain around the, I guess, needle hole? Karen helped decipher exactly what it was, and we tracked the supply chain of the drug; it was really powerful, enough to kill a fucking fleet of horses, or a herd or _whatever_ , and rare.”

“Yeah, they injected me right when I came in, through the tie; I was just standing there like an idiot because he kissed me,” Peter says faintly.

“Probably how you broke your nose, champ. If you were still upright and fell.”

Peter touches his face tenderly at that, but it no longer hurts. “Am I disfigured? Do I need to learn to play the organ and get a cape and mask?” he quips, for Mr. Stark’s benefit.

“No, never,” Tony smiles, before adding softly, “If you want a cape, though, I’ll make it.”

Peter’s starting to get tired, and he lets out a huge, sighing yawn at the sweet words.

“Is there anything else I need to know? Any reason I should have had them killed much, much slower?” Stark asks, carding a hand through Peter’s hair.

“No, not really. I think he called me a little ‘fag’ in French, though,” sighs Peter. “Sounded kinda like Spanish…” he mumbles, eyes drifting closed.

“That’s okay, sweetheart, I called him a shit sausage.”

\---

When Peter’s eyes open again, not only can he feel that Karen is back in his ear, but MJ and Natasha are there, having a staring contest, the younger woman’s book lying forgotten in her lap. MJ’s grip on the arm of the chair she’s in is white-knuckled, so Peter thinks hazily that she’s probably losing. Ned and Mr. Stark are assembling a, frankly, ridiculously complex Lego set, pieces scattered over Peter’s leg blankets. He tries not to move too much as he shifts to a more propped-up position, but he disturbs a few pieces anyway. Mr. Stark catches them before they hit the floor, and everybody looks up.

“What’s that, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, nodding at the Legos, to cover the awkwardness.

“Retail therapy,” he replies, making his eyebrows do the wave, just to make Peter huff a laugh. It works.

Natasha catches Tony’s expression out of the corner of her eye, cracks up, and promptly loses the staring contest. MJ immediately pops out of her seat and starts cooing about her own ‘decisive victory’. Peter wonders how long they’ve been waiting for him to wake. It’s clearly the next day, since Mr. Stark has changed clothes.

“One out of seven matches is _not_ a decisive victory, girl-kid,” he points out.

“What did you call her?” Peter laughs again, which makes Mr. Stark look smug.

“Kid,” he says, pointing at Peter with a tiny, spear-like Lego. “Girl-kid,” he repeats, gesturing to MJ, and finally, to Ned, “…and the ‘kid in the chair’.”

Ned preens, which makes Peter remember their very cunning plan.

“How was the dance?” Peter asks, rolling his shoulders.

“She wants me,” MJ says, referring to Gwen, and it’s her turn to preen. However, Mr. Stark is looking between MJ and Peter with a slightly puzzled expression.

“Not that I care, okay, but I thought this one was your little girlfriend, Peter? And now I hear she has her own shade of _Blue Is the Warmest Color…_?” he asks, apparently having misunderstood Natasha’s run-down of Operation Red Herring, which feels like, oh, months ago now, even though it’s only been a few days.

“Sir, it’s 2017, throuples are thriving all over the-,” MJ starts before Ned kicks her in the shin from his position on the floor. “Owww, Ned, you fucker, I was just kidding,” she says, and Mr. Stark looks like he’s about to reprimand her for language before Peter lifts an arm, as if holding a starry, vibranium shield.

The older man’s mouth clicks shut, which brings Pepper to mind, and he gets to May from there. His brain is still a bit sluggish with too much sleep. “Where’s May?” Pete manages.

“She wanted to be here,” Natasha starts, and Tony finishes with, “but she was so tired, Pep talked her into bed.” Then he waggles his eyebrows again, shimmying his shoulders a little too. Peter loses it (even though it is far too soon for that joke), and Mr. Stark whoops, turning toward Natasha with his hand out.

The Black Widow stares back evenly, as if to say, _I don’t know you._

“First person to get three Peter-laughs wins ten bucks, that’s what you said,” he crows.

“You make that in a nano-second,” she grumbles, but forks the cash over anyway.

He immediately hands MJ and Ned one of the five-dollar bills, each, and tells them to go buy some candy from Happy, or something. MJ is unimpressed and says, “We’re not eight.”

Mr. Stark just blinks, slow, and says, “You’re not?” and Peter’s friends take the hint.

When they’re out of the room the light mood dims, and no one knows quite what to say.

Peter braves it, looking to Nat, and says simply, “Thank you for coming when you did.”

“No problem,” she returns, quietly. “You can thank me by not quitting therapy.”

“Whaaa-?” Peter says, looking to Tony. “You can’t mean for me to go back there?”

“Yes,” Mr. Stark says, “Actually, I do. We can move it to a different building or even to right here, if you want, but yes, I think it would be good for you to continue with Rosalind.”

Peter is dumbfounded, silent for a moment, before he catches up. “Wait, what do you mean, _‘move it to a new building’_ , sir?”

Mr. Stark looks at him hard before explaining, “I, uh, bought the company and fired anyone that started working there less than six months ago. I’m also in the process of having your doc privately vetted so you can tell her about Spider-Man.”

Peter shares a look with Natasha, who presumably already knew this, and says, “We talked about this, Mr. Stark, you can’t just throw money at people and call it love-”

“Who says?” Tony challenges. “Where is it written? I absolutely can and will.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t do well with gifts, sir-”

“Oh, well, I’ll just take that spider suit back, then-”

“That’s not the same and you _can’t_ anyway-”

“Oh, you want to bet, mister?! You’re going to therapy if it kills us both-”

“Boys!” Natasha exclaims, trying to settle them both down. She points to Tony first, to give Peter time to rearrange his scowl, and possibly his attitude.

Mr. Stark says, “Look, I’m sorry, kid, but I’m just doing what I should have done in the first place and brought the solution in-house instead of capitulating to a _teenager_ and fucking outsourcing the most important thing in my life- I mean, I mean it nearly got us all killed-”

Since Mr. Stark is stuttering his own words, looking flustered and bewildered by himself, and even Natasha is looking at the older man with a somewhat off expression, Peter doesn’t wait for her to cut in and give Peter permission. He’s gonna go for it. He barely heard a word Mr. Stark said, but he heard his opening, his cue, his broken-out window to jump through in the cadence of Stark’s voice, and surely that’s enough.

Peter begins, and holds up one finger, “None of this was your fault, Mr. Stark.” He holds up a second finger, “You don’t get to pick and choose when I’m a teenager and when I’m a man, and that includes Spider- _Man_. I saved the world from Vulture disseminating that tech, I’ve been held under torture, and I kissed another dude, even if he was a creep. I’m a man. Deal with it.”

Peter thinks it’s a really good speech, efficient and defiant, but Mr. Stark just stands up and gets right in his face. (Uh-oh.)

Sometimes Peter forgets that, for all his nerdiness and skipped grades, Tony Stark was never bullied at school; he _was_ the bully. Mr. Stark holds up a finger, mimicking Peter. He looks so tall from this angle, even though Pete knows they don’t have that much of a height difference, anymore.

“Listen here, _pal_ , you don’t decide what is and isn’t my fault. That’s between me and a jury of ‘my peers’, a phrase which can be heretofore defined as _‘usually, not you’_. Got it?”

He holds up a second finger, and, “Yeah, we took down the Vulture, together I might add and not just you alone, and that was months ago. To your point about boys and men, that is the difference, right fucking there.” He says that last while tapping his finger onto Peter’s chest, not too hard, not enough to hurt but enough to feel it right in the center, before continuing.

“Once you’re a man, you never ever get to _stop_. Once you know what the right thing is, you have to keep doing it, and not only that, but you have to keep seeking it out. You don’t get to wait, and you don’t get to hide. It doesn’t matter if you’re tired, or sad, or alone, and it fucking _sucks_ , but that’s the way it is, for grown-ass women too. You think adults of either gender get to decide when to flip the ‘adult’ switch, when the flip the ‘humanity’ switch? The goddamned _Vampire Diaries_ this is not, okay? You never get to turn it off. The war is never over; Time screws us all.”

And then, Peter knows he’s really messed this up, royally, because Mr. Stark is holding up a third finger, and his whole hand is shaking. Pete really blocked his own shot.

“And, by the way, Spider- _Man_ , the third problem with your little argument is I don’t _care_ how many people you kiss. I don’t care who you fuck, or who you let _fuck you_. Do that on your own time, because it doesn’t mean shit to me, kid, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you an adult. Real adults don’t just tick the boxes, don’t get trophies when they do something for the first time. When you’re here, in my house… you take what I give you. You go where I tell you, do what I tell you, fucking _think_ what I tell you because I lead this team of misfits and I’m _responsible_ for it. And you’re not going to do it because I’m Iron Man or because I’m Tony Stark, or because I’m rich or even because I’m older than you. You could be my age and I could be _eighty_ , and I’d still be the one protecting you.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, but can feel the electricity in the air, the thunderous tension, and it scares him but it feels fantastic too. It feels like the moment before the spider bit him, that crawling sensation tickling his skin, before disaster struck.

“No, you’re going to go about your business the way I ask you to, because you _know_ I’m just trying to keep you safe. I _know_ that you know that, because you wouldn’t feel safe enough in your own soft, untested skin to challenge me, if you _didn’t know_ how safe you really are with me. You think I ever talked to my father this way? You think ever in my life, that I _ever_ knew he loved me enough to fucking _sass_ him the way you do me? To risk it? To push it?”

Tony takes a deep breath, choking on Howard Stark’s ghost where it swirls, waiting, in his chest. He gives the rhetorical question a beat, and then makes his last point. He does so looking straight into Peter’s wide eyes; both of their pupils are blown. Natasha is very still.

“That boy you’re talking about? He was trying to murder you. He lured you there, to take you away from all of us, to take your _life_. He kissed you so he could hurt you, _torture you,_ with it. You’re lucky that’s all he did. And he was able to nearly destroy you, _you were half-drowned_ , because you brought the other half there yourself. You did that when you jumped out a window with no mask, no suit, and blood trailing behind you in complete disregard for anybody else.”

(Fucking _finally,_ Pete thinks.)

This is it, the fight Peter has been spoiling for, since the day of the kidnapping when he’d asked for it with his words, to May and Pepper, and his eyes, to Tony. This is the way he wanted to be crushed, just this way, before he fell more in love and it happened later. Before it happened worse. Peter sits forward as Mr. Stark turns and bends. (I want it to _hurt_ , he thinks. I deserve it.)

The older man pulls a behemoth, six-inch binder from the shopping bag where the rest of the Legos have been sitting, this whole time.

“This is what else I went shopping for.”

He hands it firmly to Peter, but only because tossing it at him would have hurt. It must weigh ten pounds. The front cover is clear, with a pocket. The pocket is filled with a sheet of paper, a list, hand-scrawled with locations and dates that are struck-through. They’re all in Canada and they all sound French and Peter’s heart is in his throat because he knows what this is. It’s the other shoe, and it’s dropping.

Peter opens the binder and flicks through, feeling like he’s floating, like nothing else exists but this binder. It’s a slew of photos, some grainy and some high-quality, followed by an inch of eye-witness statements, affidavits, and counter-affidavits. The back of the book is just rows and rows of thumb-drives in plastic storage pages, labelled, followed by too many receipts and payment stubs to count. Peter looks up, and the tears track down his face, unbidden but inevitable.

“That’s the entire Québecois mob taken out by, only marginally more moral, thugs whom I paid for, mercenaries really. And the rest is every person we could conceivably find with any way of identifying you after your little stunt that day, when you left the Tower unprotected. All of their footage and photos were bought, and they signed contracts, NDAs, or took massive bribes. Hackable CCTV just got wiped out. Your swan dive, officially, legally, never happened. Ten million dollars later and with extreme prejudice, daddy took care of it. You were falling too fast for anyone to really get your face. Most people in this town idolize Spider-Man so much that they believed our story of copy-cat tech, the web shooters, being stolen from an SI lab. Unfortunately, they believed it a little too much and our stock dropped, but it’ll rebuild.”

Peter can barely get out the words, “Thank you, Mr. Stark…”. He feels sick, no, not _sick_.

He feels fucking _wrecked_. Ruined. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop himself from saying it, from trying to have the last word, as though he has a hope in hell of balancing the scales at this point. He feels like resistance is all he has left, that maybe Mr. Stark _wants_ him to resist. And so:

“…but you’re not my father,” Pete finishes, looking up from where he’d had hands balled, white-knuckled, in his lap. Natasha gets up from her chair at that, breath punched out of her, and walks to the door, holding it open for Tony to follow her. Pete watches her imploring him with the entire arsenal of her body language to just leave it alone.

Tony Stark stares at him, at Peter, instead. His wild eyes make him look a little undone.

“No, you’re right, I fucking am not. But this is how you know I love you, Pete. This is how you know you can’t kill yourself, can’t die. Not today or that day or any day. It doesn’t matter if I’m angry with you or happy with you, or how May feels that day, or how good you think you were, or weren’t. You don’t owe me a thing; I’ll never hold this over you, because it’s okay to fail at life sometimes, it really is. I did it for decades-,” he admits, before he cuts himself off, frustrated.

Natasha has her head in her hands as she leans in the doorway, like she can’t watch another second of this shit-show, and it scares the soul right out of Peter but he keeps listening to Mr. Stark because it seems to be all he knows how to do.

“All I ask is the next time you think I’m ‘throwing money at you and calling it love’, that you fucking listen to me, take it, say thank you. You be the one to ‘deal with it’. ‘Cause me? I’m already dealing with it. It’s dealt with, kid,” he says, eyes on the binder. “Done and dusted.”

And only then does he leave.

\---

It’s crazy, how paranoid he is, now that he has ten million and one extra reasons to lay low.

Peter just keeps his head down. He walks, doesn’t run and certainly doesn’t web, to get anywhere. He avoids walking by construction sites, too, not wanting to know if his teeth will chatter or not, at the explosive sound of a nail-gun. During the week, he focuses hard on school. Pete buys a junior’s old day-planner off her for five bucks, and follows along with the dates, doing homework days ahead, before it’s even assigned. He realizes it’s getting closer to April now, and it’s a truth universally-acknowledged within the American school system that as long as you ace your finals, April and May don’t matter. Peter just has to make it until then. He patrols, but does it quietly, not wanting to attract attention. He wonders if the gridlocked commuters miss his feats of daring during rush-hour traffic.

As he loops around his normal route, avoiding the new construction on the corner, he passes a newsstand that he doesn’t normally encounter. It’s one of those ones that doesn’t sell any actual, journalistic productions, just candy bars and gossip rags. ‘Stark Splits, And We’re Not Talking About Stocks!’ the tawdry headline shouts, above two separate photos, clearly ‘shopped together, of Tony and Pepper glaring angrily at one another. The subheading implies that Pepper’s absconded to Monaco due to a screw-up on Mr. Stark’s part, but Peter finds out the truth later.

Mr. Stark is the one who broke off the engagement, not Pepper.

Peter knows this, because Desiré knows this.

Two days after he sees the headline, they’re cleaning the kitchen of Cap’s suite, one floor above the main area of the compound and one floor below where Mr. Stark is now keeping his things. It’s not Pepper’s apartment anymore, and in the month since Peter’s Bloody Valentine (as Pete calls it in his head to avoid ugly words like ‘kidnapping’ or ‘torture’) Tony has moved all of his things out of the bedroom across the hall from Peter’s. The jumbo-sized room is now Dr. Rosalind’s office, where she takes phone calls and conducts virtual appointments six days a week. She offers her therapy services over the internet, to those who are either too rural or too agoraphobic to avail themselves of traditional mental healthcare. She tells Peter that it is the way of the future, and something she has wanted to do for a long time. Besides, she says, the drive to Albany from Poughkeepsie each day, though long, is far more pleasant than her previous commute through morning rush-hour to get to Queens.

Due to the good doc’s influence, Peter has been trying to take people at face value when they say he’s not a burden. Because of this, he believes Desiré when she says that it’s no big deal how Mr. Stark has demanded she clean more often on the abandoned floor. Even though this change only happened since the night Peter was able to make an ill-fated dust angel in there, she insists it’s not his fault, and he tries to take the late 20-something at her word.

He still feels guilty, though, and Dr. Ros says that’s okay, too.

She says things like that all the time, things like, “Peter, your feelings are valid,” or “Peter, your love language is acts of service for others, and that’s okay as long as you remember to love yourself too and as long as you take breaks to keep yourself safe and sane.”

Those words echo through his head now, as Desiré continues gossiping, handing him glass plates with tiny, bubbling imperfections. They’re transferring them from the display shelf to go into the dishwasher. The dishes are very dusty against his fingertips.

Peter realizes he’s missed a few lines of what she’s said.

“Sorry, D, what was that about the engagement?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, I said _The Daily Bugle_ has got it all wrong, as per usual?” she says, questioning and tilting her head to look at him. Her cottony kinks and curls bounce with the motion.

“Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry; I spaced,” Peter apologizes. “What happened with Pepper?”

“Well, the paper says it was called off because of the SI stock price dropping; they implied Mr. Stark knew about the ‘copycat web shooter theft’ and didn’t warn her,” Désire explains as she hands him the last dusty dish.

Peter puts soap in the dispenser, closes the door, and starts the machine, asking, “And did he? Warn her, I mean?”

“The scuttlebutt says he didn’t, but Mr. Parker, I’ve been working for Mr. Stark for a long time, and yeah that’s pretty bad, but Ms. Potts has put up with worse than that before. No, this time it was finally _her_ that done somethin’ craaaazyyyy,” the maid says. Desiré claims to like Ms. Potts, but the pure excitement in her voice, at something so novel happening, sounds like nothing so much as _schadenfreude_. Peter’s not judging, though.

“I’m… not the closest with Pepper, but I can’t imagine her doing something bad enough to break an engagement over,” Peter returns mildly, using a spray bottle of cleaning fluid to wet the dusty kitchen counter so Desiré can wipe it down with her rag.

“Ohhhh, sugar. You’d best believe it! Couple of months ago, the story goes, Ms. Potts was doing a favor for a friend of hers, driving her home, you know? And she ended up not coming home that night and it’s all whatever until Mr. Stark just found out that they got white girl wasted on bourbon and spent the whole night making out in this hippie chick’s bed in Queens!” Desiré explains with glee.

Peter drops the bottle of cleaner, and is so, _so_ glad that they weren’t still handling the delicate, glass dinnerware that Mr. Stark must have picked for this place, for the two super-soldiers who don’t know their own strength, just to be funny. There’s a rushing in his ears and he doesn’t know if he should be mad, or sad, or happy, or jealous, or what?

He wonders what Mr. Stark’s love language is, faintly, before he remembers the heavy drag of a six-inch binder inside the flimsy shopping bag once meant for brand-new Legos.

He looks at Desiré’s concerned face and remembers learning her name, learning that Mr. Stark had (to Peter’s great wonderment) let his other staff member go, had made his personal chef fucking _resign_ , just so he would have a pretext to teach Peter to cook, which Peter had asked for. Pete thinks of how the subject hasn’t been broached again, not since he burned his hand and arm.

(Who the hell gives up Tony Stark when they already have him?)

He picks up the fallen spray bottle, and they continue in silence, both a little ‘shook’.

\---

Forty-five minutes later, he has plenty to say, though.

It’s getting close to time for Peter’s session with Rosalind, which had been pushed back. She’d had a client call while in crisis, and there’d been a note on her closed office door asking if she can talk to him an hour later than usual, since she has a free slot then and he’ll be at the compound all day. No problem, he’d thought. He’d just go help Desiré upstairs.

( _What a morning_ , Pete thinks _._ )

The bespectacled doctor opens the office door and pokes her head out to see him sitting on the floor and leaning in the doorframe to his own room, legs out of the way of the hallway, looking like he’s about to jump out of his skin. She motions him in with a, “How are you, Peter?”

As he comes in, he notices himself taking too long to notice, all over again, how the room has transformed from a bedroom for gods and monsters to a calm workspace, complete with PhD certificate hanging on the wall. He feels like the meme of the anime guy with the butterfly as he thinks about himself thinking. (Is this… dissociation???)

“Not so good…” Peter answers, sitting. He watches himself do it, from outside his body, and realizes that he’s the only person that ever sits in this chair opposite hers. All her other clients are long-distance.

“Alright,” she says, kind expression unchanging, “why do you think that might be?”

“I, uh…,” he stutter-starts, “I feel a lot like I did the day of the- uh, at the Tower, you know- the day before Valentine’s day,” he settles on.

“We haven’t talked about that part of the day, in detail, Peter,” she reminds him, “We’ve really been focused on what happened afterwards, and with you telling me about your alter-ego, and that’s fine; you’ve done very well,” she says to preface her next question.

He feels the breath _whoosh_ out of him at the praise, and he waits. His skin buzzes.

Rosalind continues, “Why don’t you tell me how you felt that day? We can see if how you’re feeling now is similar, and come up with a plan together, to deal with things, okay? I already know the facts of what happened, but I want you to express how it felt.”

“Okay,” Peter acquiesces, before blurting, “I just didn’t feel like myself and I don’t, now.”

“How is _this_ way of feeling different from how you think you’re supposed to feel?”

“It feels… too much and then not enough,” he tries, frustrated with the inadequacy of language, “…like, at first, I feel like my skin is too tight, like there’s too much of my insides, and then I do something stupid and suddenly I’m outside my body, watching.”

Dr. Ros blinks the slow, even blink of a cat person, and suddenly he knows how to make her understand.

“It’s like with pets, you know,” he picks up, thinking of MJ’s dog Chernobyl, “They’re just going along, trying to be good, and then something comes out and rocks their world right out of their routine. Cats hiss, dogs bark, I sass.”

However, Rosalind looks surprised, not enlightened, by his metaphor. “Do you feel like you’re someone’s pet, Peter?”

“Oh, uh, no?” he tries, wondering if that’s the right answer. Ros raises a reddish eyebrow, behind her glasses. The corner of her mouth lifts too, and he knows she’s not mad at him.

“Yes,” he amends, sighing. “Sometimes I do. Maybe it’s the spidey instincts, maybe it’s just me, but I feel like I walked into that apartment, just trying to be good, you know, get the suit and get out on patrol, and suddenly May had brought home a second dog; I was jealous.”

“Who were you jealous of, Peter? Pepper or May?” she asks, leaning forward in her chair.

“What?” he asks. “Why would I be jealous of May?”

The doc gives him a look that says, _Why indeed?_... and then she glances, carefully, up at the ceiling above Peter’s head. He knows she’s not thinking of Desiré, but the next floor up from that.

What she says, in answer, is, “We all think about what it would be like to attract the attention of someone we admire, someone powerful and with power over _us_ , specifically.”

“What?” he says, and the rushing sound is back in his ears.

“Has May ever dated anyone before, since your uncle passed away?” she tries a different tack, perhaps sensing his distress.

“Um, yeah,” Pete answers, thinking, “This dude named Miles, for a couple of months last year, before I recognized he was my new physics teacher’s husband; he took off his ring.”

“Were you jealous, then?” Rosalind prompts, gentle.

“Uh, no, I was happy for her… I mean, until I wasn’t. He was a shitty human.”

“Do you think the reason you were jealous this time is because it’s a lesbian relationship?” she asks, and he knows this is one of those times she’s playing devil’s advocate.

“No-o-o,” he breathes, exhaling forcefully. “I’m, uh, mostly gay, myself.”

She smiles a genuine smile, like she’d been waiting for him to tell her that. “Thank you for telling me that, Peter. Queer people can be homophobic, too,” she cautions, “…but I don’t think that’s what’s happening here, either.”

He smiles back at the doctor, finding he likes it when she agrees with him. It steadies him.

“Do you think you were upset because Pepper was engaged to Mr. Stark at the time?” Ros asks, voice still tinged with pride in him, and it tugs at the need for approval in his mind, but Peter resists. His brain skitters away from the mention of his mentor.

“At the time?” he questions, seizing on her phrasing and evading her line of inquiry. “Uh, so you know what happened then, you know I wasn’t crazy when I walked in on May and Pepper that day? Something was going on, even if they weren’t conscious of it.”

Rosalind slides him a look, side-eyeing and saying, “Desiré cleans my office, too.”

Peter blows out a breath, something that was a laugh in a past life, before she adds, “And I know you’re not crazy Peter; I don’t feel that way and I would never say that. You should trust your senses, just not the way that you’ve conditioned yourself to respond to them.”

“Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have lashed out, shouldn’t have run to the Tower, and made Mr. Stark chase me there…” he trails off, ashamed still. “I just wanted everything to go back to the way it was, before things got so complicated.”

The good doctor regards him quietly and in the wrong light Peter might see Natasha in her expression, before she speaks, “The important thing to realize is that even when you make mistakes like that, it doesn’t mean you need to hurt yourself. I’m very certain that Mr. Stark doesn’t want you to punish yourself that way, and _more importantly_ , it’s not necessary. All the people who love you will continue to do so regardless of how well you handle things.”

“Do you think so?” he queries, voice cracking. He closes his eyes against the sound of it.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Peter. We all need to be reminded of how much others care for us, sometimes. My only point is that it’s important to try not to place yourself at risk when you’re feeling that way. First of all, it’s incredibly dangerous for you, and secondly, it’s not fair to the people around you. How do you think Mr. Stark felt, walking into that bathroom and seeing what you’d done to yourself in order to get his attention? In order to get from him what Pepper was giving to your Aunt May?” Rosalind finishes, voice rising in a gentle question at odds with the close, sharp way that she’s watching him.

“That’s not- I wouldn’t-” he sputters, before getting his angle right, accusatory, “Are you really going to say I was doing it for _attention_ , when that’s such a cliché!?”

“Okay, I understand, Peter and you’re right. I don’t mean to write you off, but there’s some truth to every cliché. And I want you to be honest with me and yourself as I ask you this: if you had been trying to really die that day, can you tell me why you chose one of the routes made most impossible, most likely to be unsuccessful, due to your healing powers?”

Peter sits back, aware now that Rosalind has been playing a game of chess with him from the moment she backed off the implication that he’d been jealous of May, from the idea that he too, like his aunt, craved the love of a powerful person that had been too kind.

“I don’t know,” he states, chastising himself for thinking of his therapist as an opponent. They’re on the same team, he knows.

She leans forward again, as if to say, _Check_. “Remind me again, Peter- and I know this was just a misunderstanding at the time- but how did Mr. Stark come back into your life again after your fight about the ferry?”

“You know it was that stupid Spanish text, Doc,” he guts out, spotting her play. _Checkmate_.

She sits back, creating space for his emotions, and the gesture and the futility of it all hits him. Peter gets that feeling in his soft palate and across the bridge of his nose that means he’s about to bawl his eyes out. (As if there will ever be enough room in this compound or in the world, even, for his titanic grief, his immense neediness in this matter.)

“You think he only wants to be around me because he’s afraid of what I’ll do without him? You believe he’s just trying to smother his guilt, that he pities me?” Peter asks beseechingly, as his head drops into his left hand, forehead to palm, and the tears come.

Dr. Ros answers him in an exceedingly empathetic voice, scooting forward in her rolling chair and reaching out for his right hand to make him look up at her as she speaks.

“No, Peter, I think that’s what _you_ believe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, lemme ask: Is my 'too much' gene showing?


	7. It's crazy what you'll do for a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes a break-through.
> 
> This is the dream-porn chapter; Peter is the dreamer and is still underage. If that bothers you, skip it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for handwavy science, oh, and dream-porn, "consensual" underage dream-sex, NOT within the reality of the story
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Must Be Dreaming - Frou Frou
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

After the intense therapy session, Peter is grateful to have a long, uninterrupted period of time booked for Mr. Stark’s lab. He’s getting close to something with his bonding compound, he can feel it.

In the month since his kidnapping, Peter’s weekends have been mostly solo lab time, come to think of it, and counseling. Natasha’s been taking it easy, favoring her side, since the rescue, and Peter thinks Mr. Stark just needs a little time. (Maybe he does, too.)

Peter wonders if the older man is mad at him, but shakes away the thought. Dr. Ros’s voice murmurs in the back of his mind, “You must take ownership of your own feelings, Peter, before you can even think of shouldering the responsibility of anyone else’s.”

It’s times like these that Peter is grateful for his scientific mind, for its orderliness. He can just focus on the formula for the adhesive, focus on solving the sticking problem, and block out the rest.

“FRIDAY, can you put on something without lyrics, please? I need as few distractions as possible,” he says, as he walks down the stairs to the lab. They’re separated from the lab proper by glass, a holdover from the design of the Malibu residence, Tony had said.

“Of course, Mr. Parker; accessing Mr. Stark’s _Insomnia Cure_ playlist now,” the AI intones.

He shivers at the mode of address, hearing it in Baptiste’s voice instead of FRIDAY’s feminine lilt. “Just ‘Peter’ is fine; thanks, FRIDAY.”

“You’re very welcome, Peter,” is what he gets in response, as he shuts the glass door to the lab behind him. Gentle strains of classical music are already playing, not too loud.

Peter makes a beeline for the workbench, eager to get down to business. The past few weeks, he’s had great success improving the grip of the flexible, web-like adhesive. It’s less like the strings he swings from and more like cushions or lozenges that form a nexus, and the somewhat round shape means that when whatever it’s sticking together moves, it distributes the shock or the tension associated with that movement much more evenly.

The downside to that is the unsticking factor. It’s a pain in the butt to remove, because it can barely be pulled apart once the adhesive has cured.

Peter’s newest idea is to create a two-step process, with the second step rendering key strands within the nexus lozenge dissolvable. Now he just has to figure out how to do that. Pete does a quick headdesk as he thinks about the problem, just to vent a little, and he’s not expecting the reprimand from behind him.

“Don’t be so hard on your noggin, kid; I don’t have extras laying around,” Mr. Stark says.

Peter whips around. The older man has just sat up from where he’d, Peter presumes, been sleeping. There’s a standard pillow and rumpled blanket flanking the man where he sits, leaning forward, on the lab couch, forearms resting on knees.

“Oh my god, Mr. Stark, I am _so_ sorry! I thought you were upstairs working, or away from the compound…” Peter trails off. He watches as Mr. Stark takes a long sip of what he hopes is water. The disposable bottle looks beaten-up and worse for wear, so Peter hopes it hasn’t been re-filled with any other clear liquid besides H2O.

“No worries, kid. There are worse things to wake up to than classical music and you.”

Pete blushes at that, but one look at Mr. Stark makes it clear the man is too groggy to have been aware of how he sounded. However, it also means that Peter’s not being scrutinized yet, not as Tony rubs a hand over his face, muttering to himself. Pete takes a moment to appreciate the man’s absolutely glorious ‘just woke up’ voice, the growl of it, before he turns back to the workbench to hide his semi-tented jeans. He’s thankful they’re old and a bit tight to his body, as it might help tamp things down a bit. He fiddles with his notes for a moment.

He’s not expecting a hand to clap against his right shoulder, or a gravelly voice to his left to say, “Sooo, whatcha working on?”

“Oh, uh, it sticks well, just doesn’t, um, un-stick,” Peter stutters out, breath hitching. He tries to focus on the science to calm himself, but it’s difficult with Mr. Stark’s sleep-warm body to his left, and the weight of the man’s arm across the top of his back, hand still clasped to Peter’s other shoulder.

Peter grabs the water bottle from where Stark had set it down on the workbench, and takes a sip, just to have something to do. His throat is dry, but the water (and it _is_ water, thank god), it really helps.

Mr. Stark steps away cleanly, unhooking his arm from Peter’s shoulders, and leans with his left arm on the workbench instead, peering into Peter’s face. “You okay? Don’t sweat this issue with the adhesive; I know you’ll get there.”

“Uh huh, thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, woefully unready for the way Stark is now reaching a hand towards Peter’s face, as if to check his forehead for a fever.

The moment seems to take forever, or maybe that’s just his spidey senses stretching things out, giving him time to feel the electric anticipation wash over his skin. But, no, then his instincts seem to recognize that Mr. Stark is no threat to him, and Peter’s body relaxes, goes limp and unresisting. It feels a bit like he’s coming _unglued_.

That’s when the thunder strikes, a split-second after the lightning, idea barreling into his mind as he steps back abruptly, clear of Mr. Stark’s reach.

“I think I just figured it out!”

Tony is looking at him with concern that is rapidly melting into wonder. Pete asks himself, absently, what the probability is that Mr. Stark has ever seen the ‘Eureka!’ face on someone else. He wonders if the man can now empathize with how people feel, when Mr. Stark himself invents something new and comes down the mountain to hand it off to all the mere mortals.

“Do you still have that rejected tech you were telling me about?” Peter inquires. “The stuff from the new, collapsible StarkPhone screens before you worked out the bugs?”

“Uh, which one?” Tony shakes himself to answer. “There were over 100 iterations before we got the screen substance right. Everything that was transparent enough wouldn’t compress to a small enough size.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m talking about the one you told me looked like my webs? The one where it flexed and kinda wove itself into the screen, but the tessellated pattern looked bad? Did the capacitive conduction work okay on that?”

“Oh, that one, number 108, that one was almost it,” Tony mutters. “I can have a sample couriered over from storage, hold on.”

Peter watches Mr. Stark dial and thinks on how fully-awake he seems now. If he had to choose between this and the Avengers, then this is how Peter would want it to be. He’d gladly give up his powers, would even cast Tony in the role of a poor man and change the state-of-the-art lab to a jury-rigged garage, somewhere hopeless and open and landlocked in the Midwest like, Kansas, even. As long as they could do crazy, weird science together, Peter wouldn’t mind it. They’d clean up and then roll up the garage door, set lawn chairs on the hot concrete driveway just in its shadow, and watch the storm come in.

Mr. Stark finishes his phone call and Peter jerks from his daydream.

“Should be here in half an hour, kid, now what are we thinking?”

(We.)

Peter explains that the compound is more than solid enough with its nexus-like structure, and can stick fine, but the problem has been in the removal. However, if they can get the webby lozenges shot-through with the flexible, touch-sensitive, and highly-conductive material that SI had scrapped from the StarkPhone-Mini project, then it won’t be so tough. A simple touch, like one would do to collapse the New-Age phone screen into something smaller, would cause the fibers to shrink back and destabilize the sticking lozenge for long enough to detach it.

“Peter, that’s fucking _brilliant_ ,” Stark emphasizes. “It’s perfect for the application I’ve been brainstorming. We need something for disaster-relief, something that workers can use to assemble temporary structures that won’t dissolve or rust. However it also needs to be more universal and less expensive to transport than metal rivets and nails. It needs to be tested, obviously,” Mr. Stark allows, as he sets down the sample lozenge, “but I’ve got a good feeling. The lack of shipping weight should offset the cost of materials enough.”

Peter feels lit from within at the praise, but seizes on something regardless, “Why didn’t you tell me about the application? I would have known exactly what you wanted. This stuff should be good for tsunami and earthquake relief, because it has enough flex to handle aftershocks.”

Mr. Stark hums, smiling as he counters, “Well, I didn’t want you to just do what you thought I wanted. I wanted to see what direction you’d take without being interfered with.”

(What if I _want_ to be interfered with? Peter thinks but doesn’t say.)

But that line of thought is cut off when his mentor adds, shrugging, “Besides, I trust you.”

And that’s just- that’s just, _oh_. It puts poetry in Peter’s mind, and he quotes, “What’s in the brain that ink may character/Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?”

He hopes it doesn’t sound too hopelessly corny as his brain translates to plain English, _What could I possibly write that I haven’t already, to show you how constant and faithful my soul is?_

Tony just smiles, asking, “Shakespeare? God, that and physics and chemistry and crime-fighting… what don’t you know, kiddo?”

Swallowing, Peter manages, “I actually don’t know much, but I bet there’s nothing that you couldn’t teach me, given time.”

\---

After hours of testing with the requested sample, Peter’s bonding compound is ruled a trial success. Mr. Stark has it sent away with Peter’s notes for a team to look over and get to work designing a large-scale beta test.

They, however, are going out to celebrate.

Both men shower and change, and meet in the garage to head out to dinner. Peter has his pick of vehicle for the evening, and he selects a sleek, black Audi because it’s understated enough for Albany and the personality of the car reminds him of Tony, forcibly. Not any less so once he’s in, he thinks, as he slides into a smooth leather seat on the passenger’s side. Mr. Stark closes the car door after him and walks around to the driver’s side as Peter enjoys the luxury.

“Where are we headed, boss?” Mr. Stark quips, figuratively giving Peter the reigns.

Peter thinks, pulling out his phone as the engine purrs to life and Mr. Stark lets it warm up.

After a moment of scrolling through nearby options, Peter asks, “Can we go here, please?”

Stark regards the screen of Peter’s phone, taking in the photos of Caffé Italia, a local family-run restaurant.

“This place looks nice enough, Pete, but you know I’d take you anywhere, right? Don’t worry about the cost. We can even zip down to Manhattan if you’re not starving yet and don’t mind the drive.”

Peter flips his phone back around to face himself and does a flicking motion to transfer the address to the Audi’s nav system. He catches Tony’s eyes and holds his gaze.

“This is what I want.”

Tony sighs and they leave the compound. It doesn’t take long to get there, and Peter enjoys the ambiance as they walk in to molded ceilings and low lighting. It’s not _Leonti_ inside, or anything, but it’s one of the nicest restaurants Peter has ever been to and he says as much.

Tony’s eyes crinkle at him as they’re seated, and he states, “As long as you’re happy.”

Peter is overwhelmed by the options, even after Mr. Stark orders them an appetizer of caprese, so Peter mans up and asks for help. He puts both hands on the white linen table cloth, wrists pressing into the weave of it, looks up at Mr. Stark and says, “Order for me.”

Thirty minutes later, Peter is smiling at the sight of a shrimp and broccoli dish, as it’s placed in front of him, swimming in what looks to be a white wine and cream sauce. Tony is served something red with veal.

Peter’s first bite is _awesome._ As is the second.

“I knew you’d like that,” Tony says as Peter practically moans around his fork. “You’re the odd teenager out that likes vegetables and making his bed.”

Peter feigns affront at that, saying “Something wrong with that?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Stark replies, grinning. “You’re a good boy.”

Something in Peter’s chest lays down happily at that, but he also feels his inner Leo rising, so he counters with, “M’not a boy.”

Mr. Stark just snorts into his water glass. “Unless you’re coming out to me as transgender, trust me, you’re a boy.”

“Fine, a boy that can lift a subway car full of people,” Peter hisses, voice low, “… and invent a lucrative new compound for your international business.” His voice rises to a normal volume at the end.

“Yeah, and who needs me to order for him,” Mr. Stark argues, with a smile.

Peter takes another bite of his delicious entrée, mulling that one over. He’s enjoying the banter, knowing it’s harmless, but feels the need to make his next point in the right way. He thinks of Dr. Ros and her insistence that he can’t control the actions or the needs of other people, only his own response. He thinks of her gentle voice telling him that his primary emotional responsibility is to be honest about his wants and needs, and to take ownership of his own feelings.

Pete settles on, “There’s nothing emasculating about knowing who you trust, and asking for his or her input or assistance. I know you know about Italian food, and restaurants in general, and though I’m sure your highness Mr. _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ would never have stepped foot in here without me, I’m glad we’re here. It’s… nice… to let you help me, especially on my own terms. Isn’t that what you’re always begging me to let you do for me? I do listen when you speak, you know.”

The soft, thoughtful expression he receives in return is the best part of the outing, right up until the waitress brings them two orders of cannoli, “on the house, Mr. Stark, for all that the building of the new Avengers compound has done for Albany; we hope you and your son enjoy them”. Tony doesn’t correct her, just nods his thanks.

Even though he doesn’t exactly think proper filial thoughts toward Mr. Stark, the older man shows no signs of knowing that. The way that he would clearly rather have a stranger, in his new hometown, believe that he has an illegitimate son, rather than say anything even approximating a rejection of Peter... that makes Pete glow all the way home.

\---

The good food puts him in a solid, deep sleep. That night Peter dreams, picking up from where he left off earlier:

They’re both relaxed, despite the scratchy plastic fabric of the collapsible lawn chairs. Pete barely feels where it’s sticking to the backs of his thighs, distracted as he is by the long, slow pull Mr. Stark is taking of a glass-bottled soda. It’s hot as hell, and the weather is too. The humidity being pushed in front of the storm sticks to the back of Peter’s neck, and Mr. Stark leans forward in the wobbly chair to strip off the lightweight, unbuttoned shirt he’d been wearing over a black, el cheapo tank top. There’s no glow of an arc reactor, and Pete’s willing to bet there’s no scarring in that spot either. For his part, although the dropping barometric pressure is making him clutch the cracked plastic armrests of the chair, he detects no traces of spidey grip. Instead of everything being dialed to eleven, he’s a smooth, even eight right now. ( _If you’re nothing without this suit, then you shouldn’t have it.)_

Sure, the heady smell of petrichor, of the earth signaling her readiness for the rain, makes it notch up to a nine, maybe. However, Peter’s not complaining as the primal scent burns through his veins. He notices Mr. Stark’s head turn towards him, considering, as he takes a deep inhale.

As the first drops start to well and truly fall, they pick up their chairs and fold them back into their proper spots in the garage. Lightning illuminates the area as Mr. Stark stretches up to shut the garage door behind them, and the sound of it hitting the floor of the garage almost covers the first booming echo of thunder. The older man secures the door and assures Peter that their science will be safe from the oncoming storm.

“You hungry, kid?” he asks as they enter the non-descript kitchen through the garage door.

“No,” Peter says, eyes bright, but his head nods ‘yes’ instead, emphatic.

Mr. Stark advances on him at that, nearly crushing his own cheap, but funky, sunglasses between their chests as the kiss sparks between them. Peter slides them out of the neck of Stark’s tank top, and places them, blind, on the counter behind him. They toe off their shoes and pull off their socks, just to feel the shock of air-con cold, summer-sweating linoleum on their bare soles.

They kiss again, Mr. Stark fairly breathing him in and swallowing him whole, before he pulls back to ask, “How old are you, again?” ( _I’m fifteen- No! This is where you zip it!)_

Peter, bratty, “Would we actually be here if you even cared?” and the words tickle for some reason. ( _If you even cared, you’d actually be here_ , Peter hears, sounds rearranged in the silence.)

“I _am_ here, and I _do_ care, even if you don’t. I’m probably not going to turn you away, but give me a little more to go off, here.”

“I’m fifteen, but this is _my_ wet-dream, and _I_ say every year since my uncle died has felt twice as long as the ones before, so I’m more than old enough,” Peter grounds out. He goes in for another kiss, feeling aggressive. ( _If you would just_ listen _to me-_ )

But Mr. Stark continues to hold him at arms-length, strong. “Listen, kid, and hear me. I’m not a monster. I do care how old you are and I do care if you want this, and _why_.” (Peter hears it again, _I did listen kid, who do you think-_ )

Peter breathes deep and smooths a hand down the ribbed fabric covering Stark’s strong chest. He’s trying to hold himself back, and he looks up, “I’m listening. I can _be_ _good._ ”

The older man huffs an immensely shaky laugh, bewildered at himself, and rocks his hips into Peter’s. The moan he gets for that makes his eyes go dark, and, “I just don’t care enough to stop it seems…,” he trails off. “Tell me you’re sure this is what you want. Tell me you know you can say no, that you know I’d never hold the garage or the science hostage.”

“I know you wouldn’t. You’d never hurt me,” Peter breathes, something healing, something flowering inside him. “This is what I want.”

Mr. Stark leads him up the carpeted stairs to a plain master bedroom. The furniture is cheap, but the mattress is soft and wide and the linens clean where Peter’s back presses into them. He’s tugged his shirt off and left it somewhere in the hallway.

Stark regards him quietly and does the same, asking, “Have you ever done this before?” as he pulls the sleeveless shirt over his head.

Peter thinks about lying but ultimately settles on, “No. Teach me.”

Stark swears at that, pupils blown, and Peter unbuttons his shorts and shucks them off, along with his underwear. He’s already hard, teenage hormones spiking sharp.

Mr. Stark, dark jeans still on, nudges a rough denim knee against the sole of Peter’s foot, encouraging him to scoot further up the bed so his ankles aren’t hanging off. He unbuckles his belt as Peter scrambles to comply with the unspoken instruction, and leaves it in the loops.

The cold of the plain metal buckle settles against the outside of the very top of Peter’s thigh, as Mr. Stark leans over him, hips slotting into place. The weight of his stocky build presses Peter into the mattress, and he settles, hips and legs leaning just an inch or two wider.

“Is this okay?” Stark asks, smoothing Peter’s baby curls and fly-aways back from his forehead with one hand. He’s balancing on his elbows and testing his weight against Peter’s smaller body. “Am I too heavy?”

“Hell yes, and no, you’re fine,” Peter says quietly, hoping his consent is more than clear. He rolls his hips and presses his naked erection against the denim of Mr. Stark’s crotch, just to put an extremely fine point on things. It hurts just the right way, friction dry and crisp.

“ _Fuck_ ,” is what that punches out of Stark, and he leans back up on his knees to unbutton and unzip his jeans, spitting a command at Pete, “Lube, now. Top drawer, nightstand.”

Peter plants a foot against Mr. Stark’s right quad muscle in order to twist and reach for the suggested item. He turns on the bedside lamp while he’s at it, wanting to be able to see by more than the scant moonlight through the clouds and occasional flashes of lightning. He deposits the tube of lube onto the bed beside Stark’s right knee, and notices the older man is fondling his ankle like he wants him to move it. “Problem?”

“Nah, sweetheart, just was trying to take my pants off…? Move your foot,” he grins, cocky.

“Hmmmm, no thanks, Mr. Stark,” he says. “Keep them on; I think the jeans are sexy.”

At that, the older man yanks on Peter’s ankle to hook his hips back into place, shoves down his jeans and underwear, and gets up in Peter’s face to tell him what a good boy he is.

He pets at Peter’s jaw and plants kisses there as the kid grounds out a groan at the praise, and then he continues, “So good for me, aren’t you? So proud of you, telling me ‘no’, telling me exactly what you want.”

Peter’s incredulous, asking, “What, you really want me to say ‘no’ to you?”

Stark leans back up on his knees again, this time to flip Peter over, guiding his legs gracefully during the turn so no one gets kicked or tangled. Then he unceremoniously drops a spank onto the younger man’s right ass cheek, and leans forward to drape himself over the kid, admitting, “Not really, no, not exactly. But I do want you to tell the truth about how things feel, _always_ , or we’re never doing this again.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter promises, and is rewarded with another spank, to even out the left side.

“Good,” his partner says, and leans back with a sigh, grabbing the lube from the bed as he goes. “Now get up here, press your back to my chest and look at how pretty you are, baby.”

Pete does as he’s told, ass still stinging, and gasps at the feel of denim on the backs of his thighs, cold metal button and un-zipped zipper contrasting where the jeans are folded down, against his heated skin. Then he gasps again as he notices the large wide mirror on the wall, the one that is standing in for a proper headboard above the low-profile platform bed, as well as how he looks in it.

His reflection looks _wrecked_. Stark’s arm loops under his to thumb at his collarbone and he watches him look, facial hair scrubby where the older man’s chin is hooked over Peter’s shoulder. His hand brushes Peter’s nipple and he chuckles at the shiver that gives, and at the bead of pre-come that bubbles up from Peter’s cock. “Cute,” he remarks, and then Stark reaches in front of Peter to pour lube into his own right hand, before capping and placing the bottle on the bed with his left.

Mirror-Peter watches Dream-Peter as he throws his head back at the first touch of cold lube to his hot dick. Mr. Stark isn’t messing around and this is Peter’s first shared sexual experience, so it’s kind of embarrassing how good this feels. A few minutes of the quick, three-fingered strokes are really doing it for him, and Stark’s got his index finger curled under in some kind of weird way that makes his knuckle catch on the underside of Peter’s cock, right under the head, as his thumb smooths over the vein on the right side, and it’s _brutal_.

Peter pants, “Dunno how long this can last, your hand feels _so_ good. _Fuck._ ”

“No worries, champ, you’re young and healthy. You could probably come your social security number without passing out. And I want you to feel good first. And last.”

Peter groans at that, reaching up to wind his arm backwards, around Stark’s neck. “Tell me what to do, please, sir.”

“Tell me just what you need honey, and I will,” the other man promises, panting.

“I-, I-, I don’t know, okay, I just need to come, _please_ -” he bites out.

“Okay, alright, you’re so sweet; do you need me to tell you it’s okay? You wanna come for me? Anytime, baby. I got you. Look in the mirror okay, you’re so good, look at you-,” Mr. Stark murmurs, and the litany of praise vibrates against Peter’s shoulder, continues unintelligibly, as Peter feels the older man’s hard-on slip in the sweat at the small of Peter’s back. Peter _throbs_ at the feel of that, and promptly comes in long lines up his own chest and over the knuckles of Stark’s free hand where it’s petting a staccato smear into Peter’s ribs and the center of his chest.

Stark gentles him through it, squeezing, and then carefully tips him forward to collapse into the pillows and sheets. Strong hands follow Peter’s descent and begin to rub the leftover tension out of his neck and shoulders. The larger man even gets the knots that always form in the curve under Pete’s shoulder blades, like markers for angel wings, and Peter feels so good that he tries to lift his hips, offer himself up, but Stark just plants his weight and says, “Stay down, kid.” ( _Stay down, kid!_ )

After a quick break for Stark to finally fully rid himself of his jeans, the massage continues, thumbs sliding down on either side of Peter’s spine, and then it’s like the record skips, like the needle hops. Mr. Stark’s hands are pressing into Pete’s buttocks, in great handfuls, and the deep pressure of his mentor’s palms on Pete’s hip joints (even through the tissue of Pete’s plush ass) is fantastic. He can feel himself getting hard again already, just from the thorough aftercare, and switches to begging as he hears thunder from outside.

“Please, please sir, I want you inside me, _come on_ -”

“You’re not ready, yet, sweetheart. I may be going to hell for this, but I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Fine,” Pete groans, “…so fucking _make me_ ready, you fucking-”

He cuts himself off when his back goes cold, weight lifting off of him. Stark collapses to Peter’s right, arms crossed and completely unconcerned with his full-mast erection. The older man raises an eyebrow as there’s another flash of lightning, asking, “Did you say you want me to stop?”

“What, no?! Oh, come on, I was just-” Peter whines over the resulting boom.

“What did I tell you? When you’re in my house, you take what I give you. If I want to shower you in love, you take it, say fucking thank you,” Mr. Stark explains, eyes serious. ( _Done and dusted._ )

“Wait, when did you say that?” Peter questions.

Stark waves a hand, says airily, “When I gave you the binder, now, are you ready to behave? Can daddy take care of it? ( _With extreme prejudice_.)

“Okay, yes,” Pete breathes, closing his eyes against the echoes.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” ( _This is how you know I love you…_ )

The dream stutters for a second, but Peter melts at the words, all of them, and drags himself over to rest against Mr. Stark’s currently unblemished chest to kiss him in apology. However, he’s not so sorry that he doesn’t grab the lube on the way, pushing it into the older man’s hands needily, whining in the back of his throat.

“You’re incorrigible, you brat. Come on,” he says, urging Peter up to straddle him but also making him lay down and bury his face in the juncture of the larger man’s neck.

“We do this right,” Stark continues, taking the lube from Peter to slick up his own right hand, “… or not at all.” He shifts Peter slightly to the side to reach better.

Pete’s right hand clutches at the curve of a shoulder, while the left taps at Mr. Stark’s collarbone, twice for ‘yes, please’. He closes his eyes and tries to relax into the sensation of fingertips wetly petting at his entrance.

“Shhh, I got you, it’s no big deal, you’re okay,” Stark assures him as Pete adjusts to the odd intrusion. Stark swirls his slick finger, and Peter likes that very much, but he still pipes up.

“From what I felt in my back earlier, it is, indeed, a very big deal,” Peter quips.

“Shut up,” Stark huffs, chuckling, and it’s that which helps Peter. They’re here, they’re happy, Mr. Stark is laughing at his stupid self and everything’s fine. His body relaxes further, enjoying the beginnings of fullness. He shifts, snuffling into Stark’s neck.

“You okay? Hurt?” he asks, a little breathless, fingers still working.

“No, it, it feels good, sir,” Peter answers, but, “Can you talk to me, though?”

Mr. Stark maneuvers Peter up with a hitch of his shoulder, fingers stilling but not withdrawing, and gets him into a sitting position that pushes Peter back onto his thick finger. _Oh._

“Look at you, you like this. Tell me what you need, baby, I’ll give you everything you want.”

“More, more, more-,” Peter begs, and Stark uses his middle finger to pet at Peter’s rim before sinking it inside him. He likes the way Mr. Stark is looking up at him now, admiring, and how being on top he knows he can shift up or forward to get away if it’s too much.

“So good, sweetheart, you’re so good at this. Want you so much, gotta find what makes you tick…” the older man trails off, and presses deeper, spreading his fingers a little before twisting his wrist.

It makes Peter jump forward, just from the shock of it, and that motion brushes their cocks together and Peter sees stars. Holy _fuck._

“Mmmmmm,” Stark hums after a gasp, and Peter feels the rumble of it under his palms where they’re braced against the other man’s chest. “You like that?”

“Yes…” Peter mumbles into his own shoulder, hiding his mouth, a little shy.

All that changes as Mr. Stark continues to work him over for a few more minutes, before fingertips go just this side of too deep and glance over something _delicious_ inside Peter. Fucking hell.

“There you go, love, now we got it. Perfect gift that you are, look so perfect, come on-” he says, pushing a third finger into Peter, and it only gets better as a rough knuckle catches on Peter’s rim, the stretch minute but shocking, oh my god. The electric feel of it jars him back again, and that delicious press is there, and if this is what gay sex is all about then Peter doesn’t know how Mr. Stark is holding off giving it to him, holy shit.

He drops forward, knees sliding back and changing the angle, to kiss Stark sloppily. After a few more minutes, he begs into his mouth, “Please, please, it burns just right, come on, m’ready-”

Mr. Stark sighs, withdraws, shifts Peter to the other side and urges him onto his stomach. He makes the kid lift up and snags a pillow to place underneath him; the fluffy denseness and cool, smooth pillowcase are perfect against Peter’s cock and they need to do this _now_.

“There you are, Pete, just rub yourself on that for a minute, attaboy,” the older man instructs as he fairly well dumps more lube over his right hand. He caps and tosses the lube aside, and then he’s steadying Peter into the pillow with his left.

Stark hooks an overslick thumb into Peter, catching the kid off-guard, and tests the edge of him gently, and then a bit rougher when Peter moans into his own crossed arms, forehead dropping. Then Peter hears the wet sound of Mr. Stark getting himself ready, and the hiss of pleasure from the older man makes him dizzy. He wants to hear that sound again, wants to _cause_ it.

“It’ll be easier in this position, okay, trust me, just to start. Just hold your breath and push back a bit, like you’re resisting me, and then in a minute we can change things up if you want, okay sweetness?” he grits out, clean hand smoothing over Peter’s shivering back.

“Yeah, yeah, I trust you,” Peter pants, anticipatory, before the long, sweet stretch of it all begins. He groans into his arms again before he remembers the instruction to hold his breath.

“Holy mother of _fuck_ ,” Mr. Stark guts out, his slide quickened by the sudden stillness of Peter’s body. Lightning flashes, but it’s another moment, the two of them just breathing, before the thunder hits. The storm must have passed them.

Peter tries to unfold his arms, tries to go up on his hands, but Stark just smooths his hand up Peter’s spine, keeping him down and saying, “Need a minute, kid, you feel amazing.”

Pete blows out a breath, trying to be so _so_ patient, and asks, “Is it like this all the time?”

“No,” Stark answers honestly, as he starts a tiny, slow roll, grinding infinitesimally into Peter, their hips flush. “S’not usually this slow, this good. So good for me, Peter,” he praises and Pete just gasps, arching his back just a little, trying to help.

Stark keeps talking, strokes getting a little longer, drag getting a little easier, and starts up a litany of compliments, “You take this so well, Pete; so responsive, so hot inside, can’t believe you want this from someone like me, _fuck_ -,” he cuts off with a gasp as Peter finally succeeds in lifting himself up on his hands and slamming himself back, just to punish the older man for doubting himself.

Peter’s starting to love the slight burn, the full feeling, and he’s not about to let Stark ruin that for him with insecurity. He kicks off a verbal lovefest of his own, figures two can play that game, “Why wouldn’t I? You know what you’re doing, I trust you, this feels _incredible_ -” he bites out, then continues on a gasp, “So patient with me, in the lab and in here, take such good care of me, don’t stop, okay? Please, don’t stop.”

“I won’t, won’t, couldn’t-” Stark’s voice cuts in, insistent, as he increases his pace and drives forward and back. His thumbs are back pressing into the meat of Peter’s ass, massaging the tension there and providing a delicious counterpressure.

As wonderful as those two points of contact are, Peter centers his right hand to balance on it and reaches back with his left to halt Stark, choking against the feeling as the older man unseats himself fully. “No, no, nothing’s wrong, just want to see your face.”

Stark helps him turn over and adjusts the pillows. Peter wraps his legs and arms around him, drawing the man down, and doesn’t let him wait too long to get back to business.

“So beautiful, Peter, thank you, thank you,” Tony murmurs on a thrust, and the wild, undone quality of his voice makes Peter finally feel like they’re equals, peers, on even footing almost.

They stop talking for a bit, both breathless at the new angle, and for a few minutes Peter’s just there, so grounded by their combined motion that lightning could strike and he wouldn't even get a static shock from it, he's sure, no big deal.

He just feels so full and loved. The slightly rough quality of Tony’s thrusts, the friction of their skin, the way the older man’s breath is hitching in Peter’s ear with every slide of Peter’s cock on sweaty abs… it’s all really doing it for him. He wonders if there’s anything better than this, and then Tony’s hand slips in the sheets and his weight is collapsing on top of Peter just a little bit as he scrambles and it’s _so_ good, slightly different angle hitting that special spot inside him and Peter tightens his legs to keep him there.

“No, no, don’t get up, you’re not that heavy, this is fucking _perfect_ ,” he breathes, pushing sweaty dark hair out of Tony’s surprised face where it’s lifted to look at him.

The older man starts again and Peter _keens_ at the consistency of that perfection, mind swirling at the controlled brutality of it all, at the mix of chaos and order that has characterized the entire evening. Tony’s weight is pressing him down into the mattress as they rock together, but Peter is the one who feels powerful, not trapped and not crushed, not drowning; he feels like he’s the one in control even as Tony pounds into him with a perfect, dirty grind. Why else would his mentor’s hands be resting on Peter’s wrists? Why would he need to be held down if he were not powerful in his own right? Who else could get the great Tony Stark (and he is still great, Peter believes, even as a reactorless, middle-income, Kansas grease-monkey), who could entice such a man to cross all these lines, to make love to a _protégé_ in his own master bedroom? Peter can, that's who.

That thought, and the hard, hot press against his tenderest places, they both make Peter tighten up, come shooting between them and dream fracturing as Tony groans into Peter’s sweaty neck. There’s a high ringing in his ears as he holds on, pulls through, catches the heavy stream of the older man swearing just above the sound, and feels the gasp and flood from Mr. Stark as he fills him up, and Peter, well-

Peter wakes up exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's 'Insomnia Cure' playlist is here: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM8XeCimduzlCpNswDNUYjZR


	8. Go ahead and cry little girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled flangst.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Shake It Out - Florence + The Machine
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for Civil War-related bashing (very light)

The next day, Sunday, Peter spends most of the day training with Hawkeye on the bottom level of the compound. Natasha’s side is more than mended, but she’s wary to start sparring again as she’s due on-mission tomorrow night and wants to save her strength. Clint says Laura’s visiting her family with the kids. Stark had asked him if he’d like a reprieve, apparently, from his in-laws. The not-so-subtle implication is that Laura trusts Clint to come and make Natasha laugh about her new scars, and Tony trusts him to train Peter.

The best part, to Peter’s mind, is Clint doesn’t seem to expect him to talk much.

They spar and work through some fancy stuff on pressure points and body mechanics, but then get caught up in a competition of aim, using the targets that are far to the left of the wide training area. Peter’s web-shooters itch from the sweat trapped underneath, as he’s foregone putting on his full suit, but he doesn’t scratch. (Doesn’t dare to.)

Mr. Stark walks in just as Barton is adjusting Peter’s stance, pulling Pete back into his body to show him where to shift his weight for maximum accuracy. It doesn’t excite Peter at all, though he recognizes Clint is, objectively speaking, aging well.

Tony strides past them, in swim trunks and sunglasses, to flip his towel and sunglasses onto a bench and dive smoothly into the heated water. The small splash echoes against the high ceiling as Peter whips a web to snag the jettisoned sunnies before they hit the bench, and he puts them on.

Tony breaks the surface of the pool, treading water, and looks Peter over as he pushes his own dark, wet hair back. It’s getting long again.

“Looking good, kid,” Stark says mildly. “Keep ‘em.”

Peter rounds the low wall that bisects the room and sits on a bench to watch Mr. Stark do laps. Clint sighs and starts for the targets to begin retrieving his arrows.

“Woah! Thanks, Mr. Stark!”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Clint grumbles from across the room. Peter’s pretty sure only he can hear it.

He wishes he were the only one privy to what comes out of Hawkeye’s mouth next.

“Hey, Stark! Where’s your fiancée? I need someone to ogle too if spider-squirt over here is going to keep doing his audition for _Call Me By Your Name_ ,” he quips, and what Peter understands from that is that he’s content to joke about ogling someone who’s not his wife, just to needle at Peter’s puppy-like expression. Or maybe the dickishness is just a cover to check-in on Mr. Stark’s mental health, Peter decides, and that makes more sense.

Regardless, Peter goes crimson because he saw that trailer, okay, and Armie Hammer could get it, plus the detailed dream he’d had is still weighing heavy on his mind. However, Mr. Stark just touches the wall at the end of his lap and, on the turn, switches to his back before he pushes off the pool wall again. When his momentum is spent, he just floats on his back in the middle of the deep end and says flatly, “Never heard of it, Barton. Reference denied.”

Peter’s relieved enough that he sinks off the bench, to his knees, without even thinking about it, and scoots over to the edge of the pool to dip his feet in. He rolls up the legs of his training gear and tries not to stare at the tangle of scar tissue standing out on Mr. Stark’s wet chest.

Nobody says a word about Clint’s unanswered question regarding Pepper. Peter supposes that’s answer enough, for a spy.

\---

Despite the little interlude at the pool, Peter thinks he’s doing an admirable job of avoiding Mr. Stark. That is, until the older man pulls him aside, away from his current activity spectating the argument between Clint and Nat about what bread to use with dinner later. Both of them are obsessed with planning meals hours, or preferably days, ahead of time and Pete thinks this must be a spy thing. Or possibly a been-on-the-run-in-Russia thing.

“Hey, Pete?”

“Yeah, what’s up, Mr. Stark?” Peter replies nervously. He’s still wearing the gifted sunglasses, like a dork, indoors. The older man takes him by the elbow and leads him into the living room to get away from the friendly argument in the kitchen. Pete removes the shades and, as if he’s having an out of body experience, slides them into the v-neck of Tony’s soft, red tee shirt.

“I want to talk to you about something, see if you’re okay with it,” the man starts, but can’t seem to continue, and just raises an eyebrow at Pete’s handsy-ness.

“Um, okay? Go ahead,” Peter prompts, embarrassed at his actions.

“Well, you don’t have school tomorrow, correct? It’s your spring break this week?” Mr. Stark confirms, as he licks his lips, a nervous tic.

Peter is totally bewildered and feels his heart start to flutter a bit. What was this all about?

“Um, yeah…?”

“Well, I was wondering if it would be okay with you if we had kind of a big, family dinner tonight? I’ve got Happy on the way with May, and Rhodey is en route from base. Wanda and Viz are going to sneak in under the radar once I give them the go ahead, and well…” he trails off.

“Umm… it sounded like there was a catch?” Peter replies uncertainly. “Otherwise, I don’t see how it’s up to me; this is your house and you know I grew up a fan of all the Avengers.”

“Yeah, kid. Um, the thing is, I wondered if you’d be totally averse to Pepper joining us?”

“Oh…,” Peter breathes as he clocks the way Mr. Stark is gripping his left arm with his right and holding both into his chest as if holding himself together. “Yeah, of course, as long as you’re, um, happy. And okay with it.”

Tony blows out a breath, nodding. “Okay, and then I have one more favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Peter returns carefully, “…but then I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Tony shifts on the couch, turning his body more towards Peter as he leans an elbow on the sofa’s back, and explains, “I’m having surgery tomorrow. They’re going to give me a new reactor. It’s not for my heart, per se, but more for my soul. I need to have the suit with me at all times in case something big comes, and doing this surgery will, quite literally, put me on the bleeding edge of technology. Pepper’s not really been in Monaco, but Wakanda, sourcing an artifact that’ll give us the best chance if something happens. It’s just… well, it’s dangerous for an old man like me, no matter what I’m going under the knife for.” Tony shrugs and gives a self-deprecating smile as he moves to get up and rejoin the two spies in the kitchen, explanation done and second favor seemingly forgotten.

Oh, no. No, no, no sir. Mr. Stark is not going to get away with being that vague.

“How is it dangerous?” Peter asks quickly, and places a hand on Mr. Stark’s quad muscle to shove him bodily back to a sitting position. The kitchen goes quiet and he feels bad for a moment about using his super-strength so cavalierly, but he pushes that aside.

Stark looks straight at him then, albeit tiredly, and mutters, “Okay then, Pete. Why don’t you just ask the question that you _really_ want to ask?”

So, he does. “Are you going to die?”

And then, after a beat, “Are you and Ms. Potts even really broken up?”

Peter hears an intake of breath from the kitchen and looks past Mr. Stark’s face where it’s going sort of square and confused. Natasha and Clint are twinning each other, both leaning on the marble countertop, watching. Nat gives him a quelling look, but Hawkeye is smirking.

“Do you _mind_?” Peter blurts, feeling ready to bite. (Cave canem, cave lupum, _cave araneam_.)

“No, not at all. Carry on,” Hawkeye says drily, and Peter starts to get up but this time it’s Mr. Stark who pulls _him_ back down by the knee and then turns to glare at the two spies.

They make themselves scarce, or rather, Natasha starts pushing Clint towards the hallway.

Tony turns back toward Peter and murmurs, “No, okay? I’m not going to die. I promise.”

But Peter just shakes his head, refusing to cry, and states quietly, “That’s what my Uncle Ben used to say when I was little. I asked him if he was going to leave like my parents.”

There’s a silence and then Mr. Stark makes an aborted movement, like he was going to hug Peter for real, but he doesn’t. Peter breathes the way Mr. Stark taught him and draws on his entire well of inner calm to steady himself. Stupid kid stuff, that’s all this is. Stupid fear.

After they each are even-keeled again, Tony answers his other question. “As far as Pepper, no we’re not back together. Not that it’s any of your business, mind you, but this thing that I’m doing, it’s bigger than her and me, or her and May for that matter-” he explains, before abruptly changing trains of thought, “Uh… you did know about that, right? Sorry if I just outed your aunt to you, fuck-”

“No, I knew,” Peter confirms, and now he’s the one who sounds fatigued. “Desiré told me, but don’t fire her, it could just as easily have been Dr. Ros, okay?”

Mr. Stark grumbles, but agrees, saying, “Peter, sweetheart, if I was able to fire Desiré it would have happened by now, but the truth is this place would burn down without her and she’s loyal. I’m sure it was her loyalty to _you_ that made her tell you, and honestly, I’d rather the staff be gossip-loyal to you and I than closed-mouthed as all get out and loyal to someone else, like Maria Hill.”

As Peter takes that in and ruminates a bit, something else comes to him. He looks up to where Mr. Stark is watching him think and prompts, “You said there was another favor?”

At that, he gets a smile out of the older man. Mr. Stark rubs the back of his neck and winks, before, “Yeah. I want us to take another crack at ‘the Great American Cook-Off’.”

\---

Okay, this is fun.

As soon as he and Mr. Stark are done counting ingredients and making sure they have the volume to double the original carbonara recipes, which were originally set to serve only 4-5 people, the older man confirms the plan for the evening with FRIDAY.

“FRIDAY, you did formally invite _all_ of the Avengers, correct? Plus Pep, May, and Happy?”

“Yes, sir!” she chirps back.

“Alright then, Pete, let’s suit up and get started,” Mr. Stark says, pulling out their aprons while Peter sets two large pots of water to boil on the back burners of the gas stove. Clint and Rhodey are sitting at the counter, watching with interest while they await the other guests.

The two new aprons are plain and devoid of design, although Peter notices the neck strap of his has a tiny spider embroidered on it. He feels the extra threads against the back of his neck, and notices that Mr. Stark’s apron, from where it’s clutched in the man’s hand as he adjusts the flames for the now-heating water, appears to have a tiny anvil instead. Something warms in him at that and he sees from the corner of his eye that Hawkeye sits up straighter, as if he’s noticing it too. Natasha melts into the room and comes up behind the spy to cover his mouth with a hand, silencing whatever quip was incoming. Of course, Barton promptly licks her palm to get her to let go, which she then wipes on Rhodey’s sleeve.

“Really, Romanoff?” the military man says disparagingly, stripping out of his outer shirt to reveal a crewneck tee. He tosses the button up at her and she just shrugs, smirking.

“I don’t think he has cooties, Commander,” Peter says mildly, as he tries to make heads or tails out of the ingredients, but Mr. Stark stops him.

“One, yes he definitely does. He has children, and all children are boiling cesspools of disease,” Mr. Stark intones, as if he is a professor giving a lecture. “Two, hold off on that, Peter, we need to start the timer first. Nat, toss me that shirt.”

Peter takes a sip of his La Croix and watches as Mr. Stark drops his friend’s shirt down a laundry chute in the wall, right next to the kitchen’s trash chute.

Stark turns and grins at him, an odd twinkle in his eye, and says, “What, didn’t you know the main laundry is next to the showers on the gym level? ‘Left’ for ‘laundry’, ‘Right’ for ‘it reeks’, come on kid, keep up.”

Just for that, Peter waits for him to get closer and then flicks him on the chest, where the new reactor will go tomorrow. “Huh, alliteration, must have been designed by a _real_ _sophisticated_ engineer. Explain to me, though, how can a cesspool truly be full of live germs and disease, if it’s boiling?”

Rhodey, who’d been watching their interactions with a somewhat mystified expression, cracks up and nearly falls out of his seat.

“He’s got you there, Tony Stank,” Rhodey teases, and it’s pretty smooth sailing from there.

An hour and several skillets later, Peter and Tony have two equally large piles of fettucine and sauce staring up at them. Tony’s looks better, but Peter’s looks more filling, somehow. Neither can understand how two precision-oriented, scientific-types such as themselves managed to make the mistake of _both_ doubling their recipes. Now there’s dinner for twenty, not ten.

It’s a good thing, though, because FRIDAY cuts in with, “The rest of your guests have arrived, Mr. Stark, shall I send them up?”

Tony frowns, given that May, Pepper, and Happy have already arrived and Wanda and Vision are set to magick/teleport their way in.

“Who?” Stark asks the AI as Peter starts pulling plates for them to all take to the large conference-room-cum-dining-hall that’s opposite the living area, past the elevator bank.

“Why, Captain Rogers of course, and his guests, Sergeants Wilson and Barnes. You did say _all_ of the Avengers, sir.”

The plate Pete’s holding smashes against the kitchen tile.

\---

The first thing Steve Rogers says when the three men come off the elevator, hands up placatingly, is, “If this was a mistaken invite, then we’ll leave, but for the record, we’re glad to be here. If you’re wondering why Buck is here, it’s because there’s no such thing as partially deprogrammed assassin-sitters for hire. Sorry, not sorry.”

Peter gives him _some_ credit for that, but Mr. Stark is making tiny choking noises that probably only Peter and the two super-soldiers can hear, so Peter chimes in with, “Okay, and is there anything you _are_ sorry for?”

And, fuck him, Peter can tell Captain America is about to do a Brooklyn-boy shrug, but then Sergeant Barnes nudges him in the ribs and Peter whips his head around to see Aunt May stalking towards them all. She looks murderous, and Tony’s expression is turning rapidly from thunderous to gleeful. The whole thing makes something _zing_ up Pete’s spine.

“Did you drop a fucking airport gangway on my kid, shitbird?!” May says, getting all up in Cap’s grill.

“Well, I, uh- ma’am, it was in the heat of battle, see-” Rogers stutters and then is cut off.

“Don’t you _ma’am_ me, mister. You’re not the Cap that I grew up hearing about. I watched the news when everything was going down and half the people were saying the Accords were like gun control and I was with Stark all the way, and half of ‘em were saying it was like registering all the Jews during your war, and I was on _your side_ then,” May explains as she gestures wildly. Tony is gnawing on his thumbnail, eyes bright and fascinated.

She continues, “So, who fucking knows? Six of one, half a dozen of the other, and everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. But now that I’ve been introduced to all your so-called friends, I know they at least deserved your trust to try to make the best of a tough situation, and even if they didn’t, well. I know my nephew, who was _fourteen_ at the time, didn’t deserve to have to meet one of his heroes from underneath a goddamn skybridge,” May finishes, her finger in the super-soldier’s chest. Steve’s eyes are wide, and the Falcon is hiding behind the bulk of Barnes and near-silently cracking the fuck up. Peter is glad that Barnes isn’t currently having a violent reaction to someone threatening his buddy, although the long-haired man’s jaw is grinding a little, because Pete really doesn’t want to have to hurt anyone.

“Yeah, what she said,” Hawkeye quips to break the tension, conveniently forgetting he had been on Cap’s side. Nearby, Natasha has her hand on her sidearm, but hasn’t drawn it yet.

Mr. Stark looks around at everyone assembled, and his eyes land to rest on Peter, who is grinning ear-to-ear at the sight of May threatening a 6’2” beefcake. The billionaire’s still looking fondly at Peter when he says, “You can stay, Rogers, _fine_. Let’s eat.”

May points at the three newcomers and then at the plates, glasses, and flatware that need to be transported to the other room. Then she claps her hands twice, impatient, and Barnes hops to it, followed by Wilson and Rogers. Pepper stops the Captain though, speaking quietly and pushing a strand of long hair behind her ear, saying, “We’ll just serve in here and then everyone can take their own plates. You go talk to Tony. Now.”

Before Pete can really leverage his super-hearing to try and eavesdrop on _that_ conversation, Wanda and Vision arrive, and Pepper comes over to help get everything ready for what is suddenly a rather large dinner party.

Ms. Potts and Peter start dishing out carbonara, and Pete feels the warm glow of unexpected comradery as she helps him make sure everyone gets a plate of the good stuff that Tony made. Only when that’s run out do they dish out plates of Peter’s dubious first foray into cooking for the three unexpected guests and Pepper laughs that tinkling laugh, in Peter’s ear this time. Pete hears the sound of hands meeting contentedly, and he and Pepper both look up to see May beaming at them, hands clasped in front of her, blush rising.

“Hi, May,” Pepper offers, “I guess, um. We really haven’t had a chance to talk, what with the cook-off and everything. You look great by the way, did Tony kidnap you from work?”

Peter notices that Ms. Potts is smoothing a hand down her strawberry blonde ponytail over-and-over. It’s kind of sweet how nervous the normally unflappable CEO is. Peter feels like he’s watching a yuri anime that MJ sat him down for a few months ago.

“It’s Sunday, Pep,” May answers drily.

“Oh, right,” Pepper says absently, then takes a deep breath and continues with, “I know we should address the elephant in the room before Tony gets done with his tête-à-tête. And, Peter, I just want to say, I’m so sorry if you feel like I made an inappropriate move on your aunt or if it caused you upset enough to… set you back. We were both very drunk and it wasn’t a conscious decision on my part.”

Happy comes walking in from the hallway that leads to the elevator area and beyond, from the dining hall. Peter stops him with a hand motion at his side, not wanting to break the spell. However, it’s because of this that he misses it as May’s face goes from soft to confused.

“What are you talking about?” May asks.

“That night in Queens, with the bourbon?” Pepper replies, voice making it a question. But she clocks the slowly dawning realization on May’s face and her voice gets small. “Don’t you remember?”

“No,” May breathes. “Did we…?” she asks, making a little subconscious motion with her fingers that Peter’s only ever seen Ned make. It was when he was bragging about fingerbanging that redhead from the other school, and Peter wants to vomit in his mouth a little bit. Peter quickly grabs two of the plates of pasta and heads for the door as Pepper says something that amounts to ‘no, just sloppy make-outs’.

“I’m just gonna… deliver these to the two sergeants,” Pete tosses over his shoulder, and he and Happy make a run for it.

\---

By the time dinner is finished and everyone is stuffed, the alcohol has been broken out and the party adjourned to the living room. Because Mr. Stark, who was quiet all through dinner, is having surgery tomorrow, he and Peter are the only truly sober ones. Although, it looks like Aunt May is sticking to wine after the revelations of the kitchen. She and Ms. Potts are on the floor, leaning against the corner of the couch, which Wanda and Vision have claimed. The two women aren’t touching anywhere intimate, but May’s left leg is pressed lengthwise along Pepper’s right, both limbs stretching out on the immaculate carpet. Their mirrored posture, each leaning on their outside knees, could almost be a coincidence, except Peter doesn’t believe in those anymore.

Sam is copying them and watching with a grin, back against a large armchair that Cap has claimed. Barnes is balanced on the wide arm of said chair, looking down into the Captain’s face and speaking softly, even as his body language looks like nothing else so much as a hulking vulture keeping guard.

Natasha is cross-legged on the heavy slab of the coffee table, watching the Winter Soldier and occasionally interjecting in Russian. Every time this happens, Clint giggles behind her, a little tipsy, and fucks up the rhythm of the braiding he’s doing to Nat’s blonde locks. He’s practicing for his daughter who has become newly obsessed with her own hair.

Rhodey and Happy are engaged in a conversation about guns and ammo types at the breakfast bar, answering occasional dumb questions from Peter as he finishes loading the dinner dishes into the machine, thinking of Desiré.

“You know it was a .22 nail-gun that Nat got shot with?” Peter pipes up, and the two men both give a low whistle.

“That the same as what went through your hands, kid?” Happy asks, and then swears under his breath at Peter’s affirmative nod.

“ _Natashenka_ , why did you let a man shoot you?” the Winter Soldier says, voice going a little Russian around the edges. He’d obviously been listening in on the rest of the room.

“Because the Québécois bastard had my little _Petya_ and Stark and I decided the father should die last and have to watch,” Natasha explains, voice crisp. “Do you disapprove?”

“Was it worth it?” Barnes follows up, head tilting and hair following.

“да,” she replies in Russian, nodding. Barnes shrugs at that, as if to say, _Well all’s well that ends well_. Peter almost misses the way Rogers is looking between the two defectors, and then their eyes meet. Cap looks away and it is only because of Peter’s enhanced senses that he hears him muttering.

“So that’s why Stark called us about going to Canada.”

At that bombshell, Peter scans the room for Mr. Stark, but he’s nowhere to be found. Peter finishes loading the dishes and then makes an excuse about needing to go get more soap for the machine, and darts to the stairs. He doesn’t need Karen or FRIDAY to tell him that the older man will have retreated to the lab.

“Hey,” he says quietly, closing the glass door behind him. He approaches the workbench, where Mr. Stark is looking at a sharp, heart-shaped stone laid out on an ancient-looking, fiercely-patterned cloth. It’s tapered, but not flat, and is actually rather bulbous in the center.

“Hey, kid.”

“What’s that?” Peter inquires, hoping his suspicions are wrong.

“That,” Stark says, looking at him directly now, “…is what is going in my chest tomorrow. They’ll be fitting it with a triangular indicator light for the nanobots and an overload bleeder to make it look like a reactor, just for brand recognition really, but this is the active ingredient, if you will.”

“What is it, exactly? It’s from Wakanda?” Peter confirms.

“Yep, one of a kind; I can’t believe they actually let me borrow it, in fact. It’s supposedly the prized arrowhead of the first arrow to pierce the earth in Wakanda. It has the power to help carry great burdens and compress heavy things to be hidden in a tiny place, keeping them secret and safe. Perfect for my nanobot suit. I had to pass T’Challa’s test and everything, just for him to tell me it existed.”

“What was his test?” Pete asks, highly curious now and happy with the way Stark already seems distracted from whatever melancholy he’d walked in on.

“I had to forgive Barnes,” Stark sighs, kicking lightly at the leg of the workbench.

“Oh…” Peter says, “so you _didn’t_ risk an international incident with Canada and call on the three Powerpuff Girls upstairs to exact your revenge, just because of me?”

Mr. Stark laughs so hard at that one that Peter thinks the man might just wet himself. He’s gasping and his eyes are watering as he exclaims, “Oh my god, Cap is the red one!”

“And Barnes is the green one, no shit, Sherlock,” Peter finishes, starting to wonder if his mentor _had_ snuck a drink, or if it was just the stress of the evening. He drags over a stool to sit at the workbench with Stark, but his stomach drops when his new line of sight reveals the old, crumpled water bottle to the other side of the man. “Is that water?”

“No, not this time,” Tony admits, voice low, “…but I didn’t drink any, yet.”

“Good,” Peter says firmly, and then, “Why not?”

“Because I don’t _actually_ want to die tomorrow,” he replies, grabbing the bottle and heading toward the eyewash station to pour it down the drain. “…I promised not to.”

Peter just hums, proud, not wanting to break the moment. He can still see tension in the lines of Mr. Stark’s back where he’s braced against the wide apron of the utility sink.

“While we’re having honesty hour here, kid, I should also elaborate that T’Challa didn’t actually tell me how to pass his test, just said I wasn’t ready for the artifact when I first asked. I called Cap’s team about Canada because I didn’t trust the mercs I hired not to rape and pillage their way across Montréal. Calling was the hardest part, but then it was easy after I just told Cap they tortured a kid. There was a job to be done,” Mr. Stark says darkly.

(Oh.)

“Thank you for doing all that for me,” Peter says, heartfelt, “At first, I was still a little wigged out, but if we’re being super, super honest, I’m glad it’s all dealt with. I know it must have been hard to stomach the Winter Soldier being on your payroll.” (There, Peter thinks. Dr. Ros will be so proud of him for having empathy without taking on guilt.)

Mr. Stark turns and comes back to the workbench, twisting on his stool to face Peter. He claps him on the shoulder. “It _was_ hard. All I’d wanted was for Cap to trust me, trust what we’d built. And he wanted to throw it all away on someone he’d known once, in war, when I felt like we, _the_ _Avengers_ , had been through about a hundred years of war at that point. I didn’t know then the extent of the brainwashing or that Cap was in love with the dude, felt responsible for his capture. When the French dicks took you, I understood a little better.”

Peter closes his eyes against the truth of that, and Stark removes his hand from Peter’s shoulder. Pete knows Tony didn’t mean it that way, wasn’t purposefully equating them to the romance of this century (and the last) between Rogers and Barnes, but still. (I wish.)

Peter turns back toward the workbench and traces a finger delicately along the arrowhead, after quirking a brow at Mr. Stark for permission. At the older man’s nod, he examines the heart-shaped object, turning it over to check the back, which is identical.

“You know, I read in _The Da Vinci Code_ that heart symbols are supposed to look like certain, uh, parts of women. But maybe it comes from this? There’s a lot we don’t know about the culture of the diaspora coming out of Wakanda. MJ would love this. Maybe all of our love hearts are just based on a symbol of war. Valentines of violence,” Peter ruminates, setting the stone back on its ceremonial cloth.

“You’re growing up too fast, kiddo,” Mr. Stark opines, "and soon you’ll see me as I am, the emperor in his new clothes.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me about Cap’s team working with you, when you gave me the binder?” Peter asks, feeling more perceptive tonight than usual. It’s like his brain is finally cleared of all the fog, firing on all cylinders.

Stark swallows, and tells the hard truth, “Yeah, I, uh, didn’t want you to suddenly decide he was in the right. I didn’t really give you a chance to choose before, when we went to Germany, and I wanted you to stay on my team. I’m a vain man, arrogant too. I’m sorry.”

Peter wraps up the arrowhead in its cloth and presses the bundle into Tony’s hands, ready to try and lead him back toward their friends and family. He’s aware he’s been gone too long from the party, even tipsy as the other guests all are.

“I’ll always be on your team, sir.”

\---

The next morning, everyone congregates in the kitchen and living room of the oversized super-soldier suite. Steve and Barnes had stayed there overnight, with Sam in his guest room and Clint bunking on the couch. In thanks, the pair of near-centenarians are hosting chocolate chip pancake breakfast to break in their kitchen before they hit the road. Pepper, May, and Happy have yet to come down to eat, from the top floor where they’d crashed in both the master and the guest bedroom of Mr. Stark’s apartment. (Peter’s trying not to do the math on that one.)

Tony had retreated to the lab couch again and doesn’t come up to the fourth floor until he’s had a shower and shave to reshape his ridiculous facial hair.

By that time, almost everyone is in various stages of pancake heaven. Peter, a gentleman and someone that respects his elders, is waiting for his stack and trying not to think about the matching aprons Bucky and Rogers are sporting. They’re the ones from before, with the taxis, and although Pete’s holding it together, he knows his shoulders are hunching.

Mr. Stark smooths a hand across his shoulder blades and the line of tension there, on his way to a neighboring seat at the granite breakfast counter. Peter can smell his fresh aftershave and soap. The older man sits and slides a sealed envelope to him, sideways and not looking at Peter’s face. “Don’t open that unless something happens with the surgery. Which _nothing will_. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, eyes taking in the flowing script of his name on the front. The ‘r’ at the end drops down in a long, straight line. There’s a tiny, inky spider hanging from it. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees there’s a second envelope in Mr. Stark’s hands. The flap is unsealed, which is all Pete gets before Mr. Stark catches him peeking.

Instead of chastising him for being nosy, Stark flips it over and shows Peter that the envelope is addressed to Pepper, and that _her_ ‘r’ curves back underneath to depict what looks like a habanero. It also kind of looks like a demented banana, the doodle not as good as, for instance, the mistletoe and holly on May’s missive from Christmas.

Peter must make a face of some kind, because Tony barks a laugh and says, “Shaky hands.”

Barnes slides a plate of pancakes to Peter, breaking the moment, and points at Mr. Stark, the pancakes, and then his own mouth, eyebrows raised. Peter notices he’s careful not to use his metal hand for any of the pantomiming but wonders what his deal is, regardless.

Tony just shakes his head ‘no’, mimes a knife or scalpel and gestures to his own chest. Peter watches all of this, mystified, and absently notices Happy walk in alone. Steve just leans against the sink with his spatula in hand, and remarks, “Must be nice for you two drama queens to meet your matches,” eyeing both Stark and Barnes. “Buck’s feeling nonverbal today; it happens. Nothing personal.”

The blond then promptly turns back to the stove to flip another pancake, probably for himself this time. Peter and Tony openly watch as that gets done, and then continue watching more surreptitiously as Cap makes a point of pulling back the dark curtain of hair Barnes is sporting, to press a few spare chocolate chips into the other man’s mouth.

Mr. Stark looks down at the countertop, flexing his left hand where it rests there, and then gets up to go see about Pepper and May, upstairs. “Mail errand to run, _adios_.”

However, Peter has an odd feeling in his stomach like Mr. Stark is going to disappear to the medical facility across the compound as soon as his letter is delivered, so he catches Mr. Stark’s wrist as he passes, desperate to steal one more moment. (Always just one more.)

“Wait,” Pete says, voice dreadfully chipper, “…speaking of _adios_ , we should decide what to make for our next cook-off. We’ve done plenty of Italian this weekend, maybe next it should be _churros_. And then, something French, _macarons_? We’ve got to do all the Romance languages.”

“Sure thing, kid,” Stark says, meeting Peter’s eyes for the first time all morning. Across the counter, Barnes is miming something like a market stall and a baseball cap at Rogers, who looks puzzled before the lightbulb goes on above his head.

Steve explains, “Buck says, ‘Don’t forget Romanian’.”


	9. Nobody does it like you do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The surgery and a talk, not necessarily in that order.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Kids - MGMT
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for surgery, pain

Not long after Mr. Stark departs, Natasha does too. She’s dropping Clint off at the airport and then disappearing for her mission.

“When will you be back?” Peter asks, and watches her steal a bite of pancake he’d been pushing around his plate for five minutes.

She just looks at him, sucking butter off her fingertips delicately. ( _That’s on a need-to-know basis, spiderbait,_ he hears in the silence.)

The two spies leave and Peter gets up to rinse off his plate, passing Happy on the way. The larger man has foregone the decadent breakfast Steve’s been serving up in favor of half a grapefruit and some wheat toast. He looks up as Peter finishes rinsing the plate, and Peter asks the obvious question with his eyes.

“M’on a diet, kid. I’m trying to get healthy for my old lady. It sucks,” Hogan answers, not sounding particularly pleased.

Peter hums, placing the dish in the dishwasher. “Would you say you’re… not happy… about it, then?”

“Lame joke, Parker.”

“That wasn’t the punchline, Hogan. I was going to ask, if you’re not Happy, then which dwarf are you?” Peter grins.

Across the room, Barnes chokes on his glass of milk and Rogers pipes up, “I understood that reference!”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard, Pete’s afraid they might stick that way.

This lifts Peter’s spirits marginally, though he still glances toward the ceiling, wishing he could have followed Mr. Stark upstairs. If only, at the very least, to check on May, he lies to himself.

Steve follows his eyes and says easily, “You know, those two plates by the stove are for Pepper and your aunt. You could take them up, be a good nephew. Just, uh, knock first.”

“I doubt I have elevator clearance for the top floor,” Peter laments.

“Actually, Peter, you have full clearance for this building. Mr. Stark set it up after you tripped the silent alarm breaking into this very floor through the stairwell,” FRIDAY cuts in.

That announcement is met with a wall of resounding silence. Wanda’s eyes flash red for a moment, meet Peter’s embarrassed ones, and then she smirks. “Well, well, well…”

“Ms. Maximoff, do not go there, okay, please?” Peter bites out, grabbing the plates of pancakes, one in each hand, and heading for the elevator. “I just wanted to make a dust angel!”

He can still hear her giggling when he balances on one leg like a circus monkey, and calls the lift with a jab of his foot.

\---

By the time he gets to the top floor, Mr. Stark has already headed to the medical building, just as he suspected, but May and Pepper are awake and sitting on the couch with steaming mugs of coffee.

Peter hands them each a plate and then takes a moment to look around, never having visited Mr. Stark’s private residence before. It’s strangely less intimate than the lab.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I? I asked FRIDAY to ‘knock’ for me,” Peter states.

“No, I have to go in to work soon; I cleared the morning, but Stark Industries needs me,” Pepper replies, slipping back into her CEO voice. She’s already wearing high heels.

“The publishing house is closed this week because like 80% of our employees are students and took vacation time for their spring break. It’s just going to be you and me once the super-soldier contingent leaves,” May says, digging into her pancakes. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for; the dark-haired one gives me the creeps.”

“What about Vision and Ms. Maximoff… and Happy?” Peter asks; he knows Rhodey had already shipped out as soon as he was done with breakfast.

Pepper explains, “Happy’s headed home to see his girlfriend in Brooklyn, and Wanda and Vision will be assisting with Tony’s surgery shortly.”

“What? They’re not doctors… oh, it’s to do with the arrowhead thing, right?” Peter mulls.

“He showed it to you?” Pepper replies, voice rising in both question and shock.

“Uh, yeah… why?”

Pepper takes a breath. “Its Wakandan name translates to ‘heart of the cosmos’, and it’s very precious. I had to pull out all the stops just for them to let Tony study it and use it for up to two years. It’s due back at that time, but of course Mr. Manhattan Project believes he’ll be able to replicate the stone’s properties by then. Vision and Wanda are… tech support for the artifact.”

“Okay, that makes more sense, I guess,” Peter answers, glancing away from Pepper’s face to check on how his aunt is keeping up with all this. Her brow is furrowed, and she’s frowning at her pancakes.

“If he has to give it back anyway, why not just hang it on a necklace?” May questions.

“T’Challa told me the overflow energy it gives off, the same thing that gives it its power to unburden weights and keep things hidden, must be bled into a living thing. The energy literally cannot be carried by anything else. A necklace would carry the risk of it bleeding into somebody else, if they got too close to him,” Pepper explains.

“Jesus, what an arrogant, self-sacrificing bastard,” May huffs, flipping her last pancake onto Pepper’s plate to indicate that she’s full. There’s an unsealed envelope next to the dish.

“That’s Tony,” Peter and Pepper respond in unison. Peter covers his face with his hands when he realizes, mortified. His ears are getting red and he can feel it.

There's a beat of silence, and then:

“Oh, _Peter_ , honey, _no_. What are you thinking?” May demands, her voice strange.

“It’s nothing!” Peter insists. Pepper looks between the two of them, then begins pinching the bridge of her nose in disbelief.

“You can’t have a crush on him! He’s forty-six years old!” May returns.

“So’s she!” Peter retorts, gesturing to Pepper. The woman starts massaging her temples, then stops and wolfs down the extra pancake. She must be stress-eating.

“That’s not fair and you know it; I’m an adult and you’re a child. If he’s touched you inappropriately or suggested anything to you, I swear I’m gonna aim for the fresh stitches.”

“That’s not at all what’s happening, okay. It’s completely one-sided. He treats me like just as much a kid as you do…,” Peter trails off, horrified to feel his throat closing up.

Pepper stands up, flustered. “Sorry, I really have to head over to work now. Peter… take it from somebody who knows. Nothing good can come of this. I know how he is, how he unintentionally sucks people into his orbit. It’s not your fault; it’s nobody’s fault. But, trust me, you don’t need to go through all that at your age.”

Peter nods miserably, not wanting to meet her eyes.

To May, she says, “Please think about what we talked about before,” as she picks up Tony’s letter from the table, “…and if you want to stay here until you make your decision then I’m sure Tony would say you’re more than welcome to take over Natasha’s room. And speaking of Natasha, that’s my next point. Tony… he just attracts people, and when he sees that attraction in someone he finds interesting, he nurtures it. It’s what he does, but he’d never hurt Peter, and I think we all know that. If he didn’t sleep with the Black Widow when he was her mark and she was practically pouring herself into his hands, well, no offense, but I don’t think resisting his underage apprentice is going to be a problem… plus he doesn’t even know about your crush, does he? _I’m_ certainly not going to be the one to tell him.”

Peter tries not to be hurt, clenches his teeth around his tongue, and swallows a little blood.

Pepper continues, “Maybe this is the last place you want Peter to be, May, and that’s your right as a parent, but… well, we _all_ love Peter very much. And the truth is, we had dinner last night with two international spies, two hundred-year-old super-soldiers, a living AI, a witch, and so on and so on. Our other friends include a green rage monster and an alien god of Thunder. There are worse people for Peter to crush on than my oblivious ex.”

And then she leaves, quirking a smile at them both on her way out. May inhales deeply.

Peter cuts in before she can speak, with, “May, look I’m sorry if it weirds you out but I’m fifteen and a half and I’m going to have desires, and I have powers, so it’s gonna be other superheroes, you know? Everyone likes people that can relate to them, and people that share their interests. Do you know anybody else besides Mr. Stark who would go with me to a biopic about Richard Feynman, unironically?”

May closes her eyes, looks like she’s trying not to flip out. She opens them and looks directly at him, saying hopefully, “Ned?”

“Straight. And also submissive, a total service top. Jane runs roughshod over him.”

“Oh,” May says, and her hands flutter in her lap. “You’re not supposed to know those terms. Do I need to limit your Internet access?”

Peter balks at that threat, but rallies, “Uh, please don’t. I’m not a kid anymore, Aunt May, at least not all the way. I’ve looked evil people in the face, and been forced to let them hurt me. Sometimes it was to keep them from getting to other people, and other times it was because I just wasn’t strong enough to save myself… and then I had to come home and make my peace with that. Don’t treat me like that didn’t happen, like it didn’t matter. Also, we live in Queens; I know about sex, okay?”

“I’m not saying that stuff you’ve dealt with doesn’t matter, sweetie, I just…” May trails off.

“I know,” Peter says. “I love you too. I want to keep you safe too. It’s not a one-way street, Aunt May. That’s the only reason I didn’t come to you with this, because I just, you know, I didn’t want you to be worried about me. But, if anything really wrong was going on, you know that I would talk to you first thing, right?”

May makes the same praying motion she made in the recovery room, when Peter was waking up after his rescue, and then adjusts her glasses.

“Do you promise?” she asks seriously.

“Yes, Aunt May,” he answers sincerely, “It’s like Pepper said, he doesn’t know how I feel and even if he did, he wouldn’t… he wouldn’t, uh, want. He wouldn’t want me.”

And to his unending horror, Peter’s eyes are starting to water.

“Oh, _honey_. I’m so sorry, I know this must be rough,” she says, motioning for him to move from his chair and join her on the couch. He does, and she wraps her arms around him. Peter had forgotten how comforting her hair always smells, like apples.

“I’m just, I’m so, I’m so _worried_ about him, with the surgery; what if they mess it up and he dies?” Peter croaks, voice breaking.

“That’s not going to happen, baby. The man survived meatball surgery done in a cave, isn’t that what you told me once?”

“Yeah…” Peter allows.

“See?” May says as she rubs her hands up and down his biceps in a ‘buck up’ kind of gesture.

“I know, I know,” Peter relents. “I just really care about him, and I think I would even if I was straight and there was no crush, you know. He’s been a really good teacher.”

“I understand, hon,” May replies, and leans back into the couch. She smiles a sly smile and adds, “Can I tell you something you don’t know?”

“Sure, I guess there’s plenty to choose from,” Peter shrugs, and presses the side of his face into the leather upholstery. He smells the sweetness of the conditioning balm used on it.

“Your Uncle Ben was my professor in college. He taught a sort of prototypical Gender Studies type thing, although I think it was technically billed as an English class.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and straightens up again. He looks at her wide-eyed.

“It was torture. He was so smart and cool and the best part was he thought _the same thing_ about me; I’d never really felt respected like that before. We danced around each other and kept things above-board until I was done with his class and then all bets were off,” May reminisces, and Peter wishes he had his phone out so he could snap a pic of her smile.

Peter considers this, asks, “Is that what you’re saying I should do?”

May’s face twists up in confusion. “What?”

“The age of consent in New York is seventeen. Are you saying I should just wait it out?”

“Oh my god, Peter,” May hisses, “did you Google that? I’m _so_ changing the Wi-Fi password. No, waiting it out, as you put it, is _not_ what I think you should do!”

Peter winces, explaining, “I thought that was the point of what you were say-”

“No!” May interrupts. “I was just trying to _relate_ to you, kid, oh my god. What I _want_ you to do is find someone your own age you can date and not have to go through the pain of being with someone who you’re probably going to outlive by decades.”

Peter hates the way her expression is shuttering and the way her voice is pitching into sadness, so he goes with the first logical argument he can think of.

“But that’s not what happened with Ben at all,” he counters. “You didn’t outlive him because of the age difference, it was out of everyone’s control, well, everyone’s except the shooter. I see stuff like that every day; I even stopped a B&E _actually at Alba’s_ a while ago. Life is short, especially for superheroes. I hear what you’re saying and I doubt he’d want me anyway, but if I ever get so lucky that I’m wrong about that, then I’m not wasting it.”

May just puts her head in her hands and takes several deep breaths. When she looks at him again, she takes Peter’s hands in hers carefully, and speaks evenly.

“Peter, I know I’m not your mother, but I’m as good as. You’re always gonna be my baby, that much was decided the day you came to live with Ben and myself. I appreciate you being honest with me, because I love you, sweetie, and all I want to do is protect you. But all that aside, I meant what I said earlier. If he touches you or grooms you or _anything_ like that before you hit seventeen, I will make sure that fucker dies slow, okay? And even after that, I’m never going to stop wanting the best for you, and I truly believe that in this case, ‘the best’ would mean you settling down with someone closer to your own age.”

Peter starts to pull his hands away, but she holds fast and steady. “I’m not done yet,” she says firmly, and then continues with, “However. Hear me when I say this, Peter, because you have to know how much I love you, okay? The truth is, I would rather you be in my life and doing something I don’t approve of, than for you be hiding it from me and trying to cut me out. You waited until you were ready to come out to me and that’s fine. You waited to tell me about Spider-Man and that wasn’t fine, _per se_ , but I understood and you apologized. But this, honey, you gotta be ready to keep me in the loop on this, because it’s the only way for me to continue to be your parent and your protector. Allow me that. I may not like it, no, and, yes, I may try to set you up with every decent son or grandson or friend my coworkers have, but that doesn’t mean I’m rejecting who you are or dismissing your experiences, okay? I could never.”

Peter pulls her into his arms for another hug, and just basks in it. It’s not what he wanted to hear, but maybe it’s what he needed. Either way, her love for him is almost palpable, like a magnetic field. “I love you, Aunt May. I don’t deserve you.”

She pulls back and raises her eyebrows, but she’s smiling. “You know, kid, sometimes you really don’t. But I love you too, and therefore you’re stuck with me.”

He smiles back at her, and then they both go to stand up. “I’m sure Rogers, Barnes, and Wilson have left by now, so we better go down.”

At that moment, the elevator _dings_ and opens to reveal Desiré. She’s pulling a small cart full of cleaning supplies.

“Hey, friend,” Peter says as May goes to get her things from the bedroom. Desiré doesn’t hear him at first and he realizes she has her earbuds in. She takes them off and he repeats himself.

“Hey, girl,” she chimes back, pulling the cart toward the kitchen. Aunt May comes back in with her bag.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” the older woman asks.

“Nope,” the other two reply in unison, and that’s that.

\---

After May goes downstairs, Peter offers to help Desiré with the penthouse. She takes one look at his stressed body language and haggard face and tells him unceremoniously to ‘sit his butt down and relax’. The maid even goes so far as to snag something called a ‘sheet mask’ from Mr. Stark’s bathroom, for Peter to put on.

“He never uses those things, they were samples from some Korean skincare line that wanted him to do an ad. Pffft, can you imagine them selling Iron Man lotion?” she muses.

“Well, no. But he does look good for his age,” Peter says, not sure where the defensiveness is coming from.

“Yeah, honey, bein’ rich will do that for you. But just try it, you’ll like it. Mr. Stark told me I can have anything in the sample bin, so you just sit there on the couch and let me do my thing. I appreciate you offerin’ to help and all, but mostly other people just get in the way.”

“Thanks, D, you’re good people,” Peter says, sucking a breath in at the silky coolness of the mask as he adjusts it to his face. It’s practically dripping, but it feels great.

“You don’t have to tell me; I know I’m good. Now, don’t leave that on too long,” she warns.

“I won’t. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute,” he says, sinking into the couch. The sheet mask smells of cucumbers, much like the burn salve Mr. Stark had once used on his hand and arm. It’s nice to remember a time before things were so… intense.

He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep for when Karen blares to life in his ear. All he knows is Desiré has probably moved on to the lower floors, if the dryness of the mask is anything to go by.

“Peter, you’re needed in room 315 at the medical facility, now!” the AI tells him urgently.

“What? Is Mr. Stark okay?! How do I get there?” he asks frantically as he shoots to his feet and over to the elevator. He mashes at the button so hard it cracks in two and lets out a few sparks. He knows FRIDAY must admonish him, but her voice becomes a garble that he doesn’t care about, just now.

“The fastest way is to web, Peter; the Avengers medical facility is the white building to the northwest. You should be able to see it just over the trees to the left, from the window in the eating area.”

 _The window._ Peter rushes to the wide window above the breakfast table and hauls it open. He doesn’t have his web shooters on, but if the elevator isn’t coming…

He engages his spidey grip and climbs out, clinging to the side of the five-story building. Let’s see, if that’s northwest, and his room faces west…

Peter scuttles to the left and around the corner before dropping down a couple stories to land on the balcony off the kitchen. He had thought for a moment of just busting through the window to his room, but decided the last thing anyone needed was to be worried about him and to let their attention waver from Mr. Stark. FRIDAY lets him into the main level through the balcony door, and he rushes by Sam Wilson. The older man is drinking coffee at the marble counter. He must have gotten a late start.

“What’s up Spidey?”

“No time!” Peter huffs breathlessly, rushing straight past to his room and digging out his web shooters in a flash; he grabs his mask on autopilot, not wanting to accidentally reveal his identity. “Something’s wrong with Mr. Stark!” Peter tosses out as he rushes back onto the balcony and uses a web to boomerang back to the north side of the building. His enhanced hearing just barely catches a shouted curse word from Wilson as he’s carried away by his webs into the trees.

Karen tells him exactly which trees to target to create the optimal route, but it still feels agonizingly slow. He hears the blast of thrusters above him and the Falcon swoops down and catches him mid-swing under the armpits.

“Need a lift, boy wonder?” the winged Avenger quips.

“Oh my god, thank you, it’s that building up ahead, third floor!” Peter gasps.

They make it there in record time, aiming for the red glow of Wanda’s magic holding the third-story window open. Her other hand is trained on Mr. Stark, and there are red rings of magic flowing around his joints. Vision’s power is stabilizing the nanotech basket and the heart of the cosmos stone. The air around it is pulsing with vibrational energy.

“What’s wrong with him!?” Peter hyperventilates. He tears his mask off just to try and breathe; he figures the attending doctors are likely sworn to secrecy anyway. Peter’s eyes lock onto Stark’s and he notices they’re open and unfocused. His mouth is open too, in a horrible silent scream.

“Use your webs; stabilize him at all the points where my magic is, now!” Wanda commands as she drops the magic on the window.

Peter does so, working fast. As soon as he’s done, Wanda drops her stabilization spell and moves to the head of the operating table to place a hand on either side of Tony’s head.

“Is someone gonna tell me what’s wrong with the science-studded man in a can?” Sam asks, voice authoritative.

A scared-looking surgeon pipes up with, “We got the surgical site all ready and opened him up, but the moment we tried to implant the artifact, its energy burned right through all of Mr. Stark’s anesthesia. Increasing it did nothing. It was all Ms. Maximoff could do to hold him down. She couldn’t do that and put him under at the same, and she couldn’t let go for even a second to put him under or he might disturb the pins holding the reactor cavity open and pierce his own heart or lungs. So, until he was safely restrained and she could switch to dimming his consciousness, he was immobilized yes, but also awake, aware, and in pain.”

The surgeon wrings her hands at that, and Peter promptly throws up in a medical waste receptacle near the door.

“Damn, do y’all not have restraints in this state-of-the-art operating room?” the Falcon challenges. The surgeon, who is quite short, draws herself up and her wide, Asian features pinch a bit in disdain.

“Not any strong enough to restrain a man who is basically having open-heart surgery while conscious, no…” she answers coolly.

Peter steadies himself by meticulously doubling up his webbing, and he hopes he’s not cutting off any of Mr. Stark’s circulation. The entire room waits for Tony’s heart rate to drop, conked out as he is under Wanda’s red mist of calm.

Peter chimes in with, “Vision, how sure are we that the arrowhead won’t just burn through Wanda’s powers as well?”

Viz doesn’t move his eyes from where they’re resting on the artifact, hovering as it is in the beam emitted from the yellow gem in his forehead. “We are not sure of that at all, Mr. Parker.”

Wanda has just enough time to quickly and quietly explain to Peter that the arrowhead is held in a vibranium cradle overlaid with an indicator light that will also snap into the nanotech basket externally, before it’s time for them to try again. Tony’s heartrate has slowed to a normal range and they don’t want to strain Wanda’s magic more than necessary.

Peter, acting on instinct, drags a metal chair over to the head of the operating table. He pulls out his phone and stares at the page he’d fallen asleep to last night, a webcomic. He absently clicks the button that will take him back to the oldest edition.

If Wanda’s tears occasionally drip onto Peter’s forearm as her hands shake with red energy in his peripheral vision, well. If Sam Wilson, patron saint of fucked up veterans and even more fucked up friends, has to leave the room, well. If Vision is ruthless in his stoicism, like the AI butler he once was, well. Life’s a bitch.

And if Peter begins whispering in Mr. Stark’s ear to help calm him as the artifact is lowered into his chest, then whose business is it but his? If he spends the next four hours describing every panel of _A Softer World_ , all twelve years of it, to his mentor in the gentlest voice he can muster, then he can, it’s his spring break and he can do what he wants.

That’s just the way life is.

\---

May comes in around hour three, having waited for the worst to be over. At this point, Vision is just communing with the arrowhead and scanning the surgical work to make sure all hell isn’t going to break loose as soon as Wanda lets go.

Trust Peter’s aunt to wipe at everyone’s foreheads with damp rags and hold a cup and straw up to Wanda’s lips. The anesthesiologist, along with the surgical nurse, has long since fled and although the precarious situation isn’t really her fault, Peter’s sure she’s hunting for a new job at this very moment.

When Wanda is done drinking, May puts the cup down and steps behind Peter to massage his shoulders as he describes another three-panel edition of the webcomic to the still unconscious Mr. Stark. She does her best Kris Jenner voice in his ear and says softly, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

It’s, of course, exactly the kind of silliness Peter needs. God, he loves her so much.

May then asks the obvious question of the room at large, “So… is he going to be alright?”

“I believe so,” Wanda answers, voice audibly relieved. “I was able to keep most of the pain from his mind, and Peter did the rest.”

Aunt May turns to Viz, who has never looked more out of place in his scrubs. “And?”

Vision answers her prompt in that same stoic voice he’s been using all day, “Yes.”

“Can you tell me what that thing even is?” she requests, not satisfied yet.

“It is… not something that I have words for,” Vision admits. “However, I can feel its resonance and its energy. It reacts to proximity with vibranium; they match up like lodestones. It seems the vibranium cradle is absorbing most of its energy and the rest is settling in Mr. Stark’s body. It’s not like it was before, so he should be able to use pain medications throughout his recovery. The artifact has settled.”

“I can feel it too,” Wanda puts in. “It is benign,” she assures Aunt May before she turns her head to meet Peter’s gaze and continues.

“And it likes you, little one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Softer World is a real thing, and it was brilliant. Start from the beginning of the webcomic here: http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php?id=1


	10. I know how much it matters to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst alert. Peter has two Talks with a capital T, and then loses his shit a lil bit. 
> 
> To make up for it, please find a link to the playlist Peter mentions, below. You'll understand which playlist I mean by the end of the chapter.
> 
> https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM9M4FUuD55OZLcQgLqBBLFw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for dissociation, discussion of mental health issues, some bodily injury, ANGST
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Phenomena - Yeah Yeah Yeahs
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

Sam Wilson pulls Peter aside as soon as Mr. Stark is stable and resting. They go for a walk around the complex, and Peter sees more of the campus than he ever has before. It’s beautiful, Hudson Valley picturesque, and Wilson can keep up with Peter’s jog just fine for someone without powers. They stop, panting, at a picnic table in the shade.

Peter turns off his phone. FRIDAY doesn’t need to hear this. Despite the sweat, the fine hairs on Peter’s arm stand straight up.

“So, Spidey, when did this little 'Fifty Shades Starker' situation start?”

Peter gapes like a fish, even though he was kind of expecting it. “How did you know?”

“Boy, I don’t wear those red goggles because I’m _blind_ ,” Wilson returns, and claps a hand on his shoulder.

Peter huffs and pushes the hand away. “It’s not a _situation_ , okay? He doesn’t even know.”

“He will,” Sam says easily, and with no small amount of concern.

“No, he won’t. And even if he does, it won’t be a big deal. It’s just a stupid crush,” Peter deflects.

“Hmmm,” the Falcon hums. “Everything you just said is wrong.”

“Shut up,” Peter groans, and drops his sweaty forehead to the marginally cooler wood of the picnic table, to pout. Then he says, “No, actually, don’t. Talk if you want to, because you’re the only person out of the ones who know who isn’t giving me a lecture about age differences. Just don’t expect me to say anything back to you.”

When Peter peeks at Sam’s face, the man is beaming a bright white smile at him.

“Okay. I can do that,” he says, and takes a deep, slow breath to give Peter one last out.

Peter closes his eyes.

“You know this thing only ends one of two ways, right? I mean, age differences are one thing I can’t talk about, because I pal around with two super-soldiers that are all kinds of unhealthy for each other. I mean, yeah they’re from the same time and are in the same time now, frozen at similar ages, but Barnes has lived twice as many decades as Cap, nearly all of them horrible. They both have PTSD and refugee syndrome out the wazoo and there’s all kinds of physical and mental trauma going on there that I can’t go into detail about, so they really shouldn’t be together. They fight as often as they fuck, sometimes simultaneously. But. It’s love, you know?”

Peter lifts his head from the hard, stark edge of the unfinished wood and crosses his arms to pillow his forehead on instead. Wilson slides him a water bottle he must have gotten at the medical building and Peter just holds it, likes the coolness on his palm. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, back to the two ways this could go, you’re a smart enough kid from what I’ve seen that you know it doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t matter that I, Sam Wilson, know for a fact that I am one in a million who can go from a comparatively civilian life to a super life. And trust me, it hurts to say I was a civilian after all the training and dangerous shit I did, but once you’ve been around Barnes, everything seems civilian. That man fucking bakes cookies like it’s a mission. I guess what I’m really saying is, I deserved better.”

Peter straightens up to look the man in the eyes. Watches the way Sam’s dark skin shines with sweat, from running yes, but also from stress. He looks older than the footage Peter had seen on TV when the Falcon had first come soaring into the picture.

“God, you really did,” Peter guts out. He hadn’t really considered it before.

Sam takes a gulp of his own water and waits for Peter to copy him. He continues.

“Damn straight, I did. I was just going along, trying to help the little guy, you know? Looking out for people that most folks would rather not think about, once the war is over. Or even the deployment, really. War’s never over. Anyway, I’m just minding my own business, hoeing my own row, and then I get caught up in Steve’s trauma. Man like that smiles at you with invisible cracks around his eyes and around the edges of his mouth, you hop to it tryin’ to help. Doesn’t matter if you’re gay, straight, bi, or indifferent. And if you’re me, you spend all your money trying to find Barnes, trying to find a place in Brooklyn, trying to go back and forth with your long-distance girlfriend. Trying to be everything to everyone, just to end up hiding from the world for my trouble.”

Peter looks down at his hands, and then back up at Sam, who’s watching him. It reminds him of Dr. Ros. “I do that too. I get it. And I’m sorry you got caught up in all this.”

But Sam smiles another blinding smile. “I’m not! Peter, that’s my point. No one who hasn’t been through it themselves is ever going to understand what being super is about. They’re not going to know how much it sucks paired with how awesome it is, in the same breath sometimes. They’re not going to understand that you can’t stop even though your heart breaks and you wish every night for your old life. They’ll never get it.”

Peter blurts, “I’m not even sure if I get it myself, sometimes. I think that’s part of why I need Mr. Stark, you know, to teach me, to tell me how to be, because otherwise my brain just runs on a loop and it won’t shut up and I feel so broken-”

“Shhh, boy wonder, it’s okay. Just you and me out here, no need to front but no need to lose your cool either,” Sam instructs and makes Peter copy his breathing before he allows Peter to continue.

“I had this dream about him,” Peter admits quietly. He hides his face in his hands and feels the warmth of his own cheeks. “We were nobodies, mechanics with a science lab in his garage and a big driveway he fixed cars in. No reactor, no money, no spidey powers. Just a storm coming in and a version of me that was brave enough to ask for what I wanted.”

Sam sighs. “Couple of things here, Peter. One, you do not have a stupid crush. You have a big, damn love. Accept that. Two, he _is_ going to find out, eventually. Steve told me once that Stark’s IQ is like 270, and you’re not exactly subtle. The only reason he doesn’t ‘know’ already is because his intelligence is apparently outmatched by his penchant for denial.”

“I reject your reality and substitute my own,” Peter quotes, grumbling.

Sam laughs and throws back the rest of his water bottle, gesturing for Peter to do the same. “Exactly.”

“So, let me guess,” Peter pipes up once he’s hydrated again, “… neither of these two scenarios you keep referencing end well for me, is that it?”

“Sadly, I don’t think so, boy wonder,” Sam says, smile dimming. “The thing is, you _do_ love him and he _will_ find out, so the only other question is about how he might feel. If he doesn’t return your feelings, that sucks hard. But if he does, I think that might even be worse, because you’re not gonna to be able to act on it. If you do act on it, you’re not going to be able to hide it, not for long. And that was my original point: Even if, by some miracle, the state of New York found some unlikely understanding of what it’s like to be a super that is drawn to other supers, even if they _got_ just how badly people like you and Stark and Steve and Buck _need_ to be around one another just to stave off the feeling of isolation, of being a stranger in a strange land, well. They’re not going to understand how that translates to putting his dick in your ass, to put it bluntly. He’ll go to prison, at least four years, worse if he tries to take you across state lines or out of the country, and even worse still if there are nude pics or videos involved. You’re not dumb, Peter, and I say that as a guy who just met you, so don’t _be_ dumb. Don’t put Stark and your hottie, hellcat of an aunt and Pepper through the scandal. Just don’t.”

The worst part is, Peter knows he’s right. But he can’t help it… he’s always been one to want the last word.

“What if I was already seventeen before anything happened?” he asks, voice small.

Sam crumples his plastic water bottle in his hands, fidgeting. Peter waits.

“If you really were nobody mechanics with a garage lab and a side hustle fixin’ cars, instead of a celebrity with a stock ticker and a freakin’ high school student, then that might work,” Sam allows, long eyelashes kissing as he blinks the slow blink of emburdening empathy, looking down at the gaps between slats in the picnic table.

Peter looks up and away, and finishes the other man’s thought. “…But we’re not.”

The sky is clear.

\---

A couple of days later, on Friday, Mr. Stark is well enough to move out of the recovery room at the medical building and back to his own bed. Peter takes the fixed elevator up to visit, and wears his rattiest clothes (an old, holey MIT shirt that was secondhand when he bought it, jeans that fit too loose in the waist and that have gone thin at the knees and thighs). He’s doing the opposite of dressing up for Mr. Stark. He’s going to do the right thing. No temptation, no seduction. Peter doesn’t even comb his hair, despite taking his usual morning shower. He’s going to wait until Dr. Ros leaves for the day before he goes to see his mentor, so a shower now could hardly count as freshening up for his visit. He doesn’t ask himself why he needs to wait for her to leave, or rather, he _does_ ask himself, but receives no answer.

When Peter enters the master bedroom for the first time, and watches Tony appraise him, he thinks he may have miscalculated. It's different to see him in the man's own bed. 

Mr. Stark’s wearing his glasses in a concession to the headache that the pain meds, in tandem with the alcohol withdrawal, have given him. Peter knows this, because he can smell the man’s pain from here. He wonders if Stark can smell Peter’s emotions, before he dismisses the thought. Stark isn’t like Peter; he _made_ himself super. (He always was.)

“Hey, kid. How’s it hanging? You look a little… forlorn. Rumpled. Off-kilter. Akimbo.”

Peter silences the rambling with a sharp exhale. “Just tell me you’re okay. Lie if you have to.”

“I’m okay,” Tony says immediately. “And it’s not a lie. The surgical work itself was very high-tech and went smoothly. It was the anesthesia that was the bitch.”

“Do you remember it?” Peter asks. (Do you remember me?)

Tony looks at him steadily over his glasses, and finally places the book he’d been holding like a shield to the side.

“Some of it,” he says carefully.

Peter comes further into the room, intending to maybe perch on the lovely bench at the end of the bed. Instead, Peter is booted from his body and he watches as someone else (it _must_ be someone else) goes ‘round to the empty side of the bed, picks up the novel, and slips under the covers. Peter slides the dark-covered paperback under the pillow, lays down his head, and blinks up at Mr. Stark’s shocked expression. (He says the title of the book to himself, wonders what a House of Leaves might look like. Would it be cold? Or surprisingly inviting?)

“What the fuck?” Stark says, attempting to push back and away from Peter, and groaning at the strain on his abs and pecs.

They must have wheeled him here in a wheelchair, Peter thinks absently.

Mr. Stark collapses, wind knocked from him, and he says to the ceiling, “Answer me.”

“I want to know what’s in the letter you gave me, first,” Peter bargains.

“No, you don’t get to just come in here and make demands; I don’t know what’s gotten into you-”

“No one’s gotten into me. I’m a virgin, but fucked up all the same. Stained. Broken. Empty,” Peter says, voice flat. (A house made of leaves would be perfect for a spider.)

Stark gasps and nearly heaves as he levers himself up, looking desperate to face Peter in a way that he wasn’t the first time he tried. “Kid, it’s happening again. You can’t check out, okay, I’m not strong enough right now to physically protect you. I need you to come back to your body, it’s okay sweetheart, no one’s mad at you…”

“You’re not?” Peter says, a disjointed and atonal hope filling his voice. His vision is hyper-focused on Stark’s chest. It’s lit up and when he reaches out to touch it, the light flickers. He remembers a red handprint, just there, where the light is. (Do you remember me? he hears again, an echo.)

Peter wishes he had his Spider-Man mask on. He could be strong, then. Could focus.

Stark, having most likely weighed the pros and cons of his answer, says, “No, I’m not mad, Pete. I mean, I’m not exactly pleased at the position you’ve put us both in, but that’s a discussion for later. If you’re having a setback, it’s not your fault.”

“What’s in the letter?” Peter asks again. His needle skips. (Will you remember me, after?)

Tony sighs. “You weren’t supposed to know unless I died in that surgery. I didn’t. Ergo…”

“I didn’t open it,” Peter is quick to defend himself. “You told me not to, sir,” he explains, sitting up in bed and rolling to his knees. He rubs his itching wrists on his own quads as he continues, “…but you didn’t say open it if you die. Now that I think about it, you said open it if anything goes wrong. Something went wrong.” (Ergo, ergo, ergo.)

“Pete, we got bigger problems. We need to get you to Ros. Has she already left for the day?”

“What does the letter SAY?!” he shouts, the heels of his hands slapping down into his thighs hard enough that he knows the bruises will bloom like violets: purple and yellow.

Tony startles hard at that and then winces at the sudden movement. The combination of the two motions is enough to unsteady him and the older man slips off the side of the bed, falling on his ass in the narrow space between the mattress and the wall. It’s just wide enough for Tony to crumple there, legs drawn up protectively as he moans, dazed at the impact of the back of his skull on the bedroom wall.

Peter moves on autopilot to his mentor’s side, and goes to check for blood. He swipes at his own face first, because it itches too, and then feels tenderly through Stark’s hair for an open wound. Peter’s fingers come away clean of blood, but still wet somehow. (Oh, he must have been crying.)

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, so sorry, so-” he chants.

“Pete, Peter, hush, I’m okay, just. You need to go. I’m not sure why you came here, but FRIDAY’s no doubt called the medics, and they’ll be here in a moment. FRIDAY probably also called Dr. Ros, and if she hasn’t, this is me asking her to. You need to wait downstairs for her, okay? Fri will keep an eye on you.”

“I love FRIDAY, Mr. Stark,” Peter babbles nonsensically as he runs his hands over the other man’s body, checking for injuries. “…I made a playlist for the lab that is all songs with the word 'Friday' in the lyrics, and she flashes the lights whenever they sing her name, like she’s dancing. Her favorite is The Cure, I think: ‘Friday I’m in Love’.”

Stark grips his left arm, stressed, even as the barest shadow of a grin flickers on his face at the extra information. “Peter, you need to go downstairs. It looks like we had a domestic in here, and I won’t have you blamed for it. They might commit you involuntarily and that would undoubtedly make things a lot worse. People could get hurt. I love that you dance with the AI unabashedly; I just love you. Full stop. That’s what the letter says. Now, will you go downstairs, please?”

“You love me?” Peter says faintly. “Why wouldn’t you just say that?”

Stark swears and pushes uselessly at Peter, but the man must be so discombobulated, Pete thinks, that his fingers slip and he pokes Peter in the ear, holding his index finger there painfully as an intense expression crosses his face. “Peter. Out the fucking bedroom window. Now. I’m counting to three, and you better be gone. One-”

“Why wouldn’t you just tell me?” Peter repeats, not listening, but maneuvering around the bed to go towards the window anyway. (Obey, obey, obey.)

“Because it’s not how you want me to love you, okay?! Leave!” Stark spits, eyes wild. “Two!”

“You love me?” Peter asks again, eyes fixed on Tony even as his fingers are digging at Karen in his ear where Tony pushed on the earpiece in his scrambling.

“Yes, but-”

“But not like that. You don’t want me? Like that? It’s not romantic?” Peter has to know.

Tony’s eyes flick to the window for a half-second before there’s a gargantuan crash. His senses are screaming for him to turn around and face the threat, but Peter doesn’t move, hanging instead on Mr. Stark’s answer. ( _Three_.)

“No, kid, it’s not; I’m sorry.”

The empty Iron Man suit, having been surreptitiously called via Karen, grabs him from behind and whisks Peter away.

The sky is also very blue, it turns out.

 

**_End Act I (art by[peachbabypie](https://peachbabypie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr)_**

 


	11. If you were my little girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter needs a break.
> 
> This is officially the first work on the Archive to tag itself Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019), and this chapter is the beginning of why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for dream-frottage
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Cough Syrup - Young the Giant
> 
> Follow along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM
> 
> AND AN IMMENSE THANK YOU, to [SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut) for her help with this chapter. She's the jam in my jelly roll.

_**Begin Act II** _

 

Dr. Ros comes rushing back to the compound at FRIDAY’s behest, or so Peter is told. He’s numb, and he has only one thing on his mind.

“Am I crazy?” he asks, desperate, as soon as he’s seated in The Chair, as he calls it. Soft music is playing low in the background.

“Why would you think of yourself that way, Peter? Have any of your loved ones, or even myself perhaps, said as much?” the doctor asks, in answer, and well.

 _No_ , _not technically_. But Peter wouldn’t call that strictly helpful. Her somewhat glassy eyes follow his shrug.

“Can you just answer the question?” Peter requests, feeling his hackles inexplicably rising. “Please?” he tacks on, remembering himself.

The good doctor levels him with her placid, unconcerned gaze. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Peter; I just think you’re under a lot of stress. From looking over my past therapy notes, I can see that you have a pattern of always waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for never believing things can be as easy as they seem.”

“Yeah…” Peter mumbles. (I guess I do…)

“Well,” Rosalind continues, “…don’t you think things have all been a bit too easy lately? I heard there was a little team-and-family dinner here the other night, and Tony Stark’s surgery, of course. It all seemed a bit too good to be true, that everything was working out, am I right?”

Peter swallows, thinking of Mr. Stark’s thunderous expression when Rogers and company had stepped off the elevator. He nods. He’d expected more of a meandering fight, more of a stand-off. Ros’s words are compelling. (She’s right…)

“You must feel like you’ve been on a bit of a vacation, isn’t that right? I mean, you’ve been here at the compound for days, with Stark doting on you, not in Queens. And what have you done to deserve that, really?”

Peter shakes his head, nervous. “I don’t know…” (Nothing.)

Dr. Ros removes her glasses, and puts her hands behind her head. She leans back in her chair, knees apart despite the skirt she’s wearing, not that Peter is looking or that he could see anything from this angle even if he were.

When she speaks, the doctor sounds as if she’s telling him a secret using words that she’s thought over many times. It sounds practiced, familiar even, when she explains, “Peter, no man can serve two masters at once. You need to shit or get off the pot. If you’re not capable of patrolling the neighborhood or being around Tony Stark while he recovers, then I don’t know what to tell you. You ought to take a vacation. But don’t do it half-assed. Either give New York and the Avengers both your A-game or take a break.”

Uncomfortable and confused, Peter just nods again. Normally, he’d be against a break, but the doctor sounds very reasonable, though her words are brash.

He hastily changes the subject, though, and says, “Listen, is it alright if I want to talk about this contradiction that’s been brewing inside me, if that’s okay?”

Ros waves her hand impatiently. Peter shifts in his seat.

He continues, “It’s insane, I feel like I’m always stretched thin and being pulled in two different directions between a couple of live wires. I’m a perfectionist, but I procrastinate. I want to be understood, but not observed. I want to be acknowledged, but also left alone in peace. I want Mr. Stark to go away and leave me to my misery… but I also really, really want him to come closer, too?”

The doctor is nodding absently, looking at her screen, but it hardly matters because Peter’s on a roll now.

“I just, I did _the thing_ again and I know it’s wrong. I did the thing where I go outside myself and hurt myself trying to make Tony _listen_ to me, the thing we talked about before, and like always, he put his sole focus on me and it felt _so good_ but then he ended up hurting himself and I _don’t_ want that…”

Ros leans forward at that, and he’s instantly grateful that she seems as concerned as he is. Peter doesn’t want Tony getting hurt, especially not because of him. The doctor looks intensely serious as she asks her next question.

“Why do you think he hurt himself, Peter?” she asks, and then her face goes sort of square and tense for a moment before she quickly rephrases. “Why do you think he allowed himself to be hurt by your actions?”

He flinches at that. Peter knows the answer, but he’s not sure he has the emotional wherewithal to say it out loud.

Ros sees his hesitation and she leans back again, to wait him out patiently, but it feels like nothing so much as a cold withdrawal to Peter and he can’t take it, so he blurts his answer.

“Well, he said he loves me. Just… not how I want. I guess he sees himself as my mentor or my protector, which I’m grateful for, but… I don’t wanna be anyone’s responsibility, not more than I already am.” Peter explains haltingly.

Ros tilts her head, eyes bright, and asks, “Then what _do_ you want, Peter?”

Peter closes his eyes and the soft music lulls him for a moment. It feels safe here. It feels safe for him to admit, quietly, “I want to be desired.”

“Good boy,” Dr. Ros praises, and oh, of course. _Honesty is the best policy_ , he thinks.

But there’s more to it, and he suddenly needs her to know that. He feels compelled to add, “I just, I, I want everything to change and stay the same, simultaneously. It feels like the calm before the storm. That smell of oncoming rain is in my nose and I just can’t-” he struggles.

“I understand,” she replies, voice gentle.

Peter soldiers on, “I love that we have all this tension, it’s honestly more than I could have ever hoped for, but if he sees me as just a kid, then what can I do? And, even if he didn’t, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’d mess it up, he’s a grown man, and I’m just Peter, I-”

Ros interrupts yet again to insert her suggestion, “You need a vacation, like I said, kid, get the hell outta dodge-”

And, like before, the unprofessional language sounds so wrong in her mouth but Peter also somewhat appreciates how blunt and forthcoming she’s being with him. She’s certainly not wrapping him in cotton wool like the other adults in his life and maybe, just maybe, all this is what everyone else was thinking of him this whole time…

Ros leans forward in the chair, eyeing the clock, and says quickly, “Why not Europe? Surely your little school has some kind of study abroad program this summer? Ask Stark for the funds; I doubt his summer plans involve spending every weekend with a teenager anyway.”

And Peter is forced to agree, miserable, because he knows it’s the truth, but it hurts to admit it. He can hear wood creak where Dr. Ros is gripping the arms of her chair, although her face is calm, and it hits him then that she must be so anxious to go home. It’s chilly in here as it gets closer to evening and his skin has been pebbled with goosebumps since he walked in. This is already well past her normal hours, and he feels just awful about keeping her trapped here.

“I’ll look into it,” he promises, and the triumph in her eyes tells him it’s a promise he’ll have to keep.

\---

Peter still wants a second opinion, though.

It seems like a good starting point to him, to go and find Sam Wilson, and he strides past the living room area of the Rogers-Barnes suite. The two super-soldiers hadn’t waited on their friend and were probably ensconced somewhere waiting on him to catch up to their rendezvous. (And no doubt enjoying some rare privacy in the meantime, Peter’s mind thrills him by adding.)

Peter finds Sam exactly where he’d expected to, packing his stuff in his guest room.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey, wonder bread,” Sam responds, looking up.

“M’surprised to see you haven’t shipped out yet,” Peter says mildly, unsure how else to ease into what promises to be a tense conversation.

Sam shrugs, explaining, “Eh. It was a pretty big moment for Cap and Barnes, being out and being reunited, together, with the whole fam-damily. I’m letting them celebrate.”

Peter’s mouth quirks at the thought, pleased that his id had read the room correctly, and he quips, “I guess they gotta work out all the tension from the reunion somehow, huh?”

Sam grins, but he tempers it with, “Now don’t you go trying that on My First Mister up there, okay? He’s banged up enough,” and he nods at the ceiling.

Peter sobers immediately, asks quietly, “How’s he doing? Have you heard anything?”

“The docs are already talking about some form of memory loss,” Sam says, equally as quietly. “I guess the medics were called and somehow, he hit his head? And he didn’t tell them until after they’d given him a bunch of pain meds that really, _really_ shouldn’t be taken when you have a concussion.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and he’s unsure if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah, and actually, they’re worried someone broke in and maybe attacked him before getting spooked, because the window was smashed… I heard the crash, myself. But apparently, he doesn’t remember anything about what happened. They’re running tests to make sure he hasn’t been messed with. Nothing short of Iron Man himself should have been able to smash through one of the compound windows like that; they’re highly reinforced.”

Peter feels about an inch tall. He wishes he would simply wink out of existence. He can’t believe Mr. Stark is covering for him to the extent of faking memory loss.

He’s grateful and guilty in the same measure, and the speedball mixture of it makes him sick to his stomach.

“FRIDAY’s logs were wiped, too,” Sam adds, darkly.

 _Christ._ Peter thinks he might need that vacation, after all.

\---

Peter goes ahead and arranges everything he needs to with Midtown, and by the first of May, everything is set. Normally, he wouldn’t be able to sign up for the study abroad summer program this late in the school year, but MJ does him a solid and drops out, freeing up a spot. Well, it’s more like they do each other a solid because, as she puts it, if she skips out on the sanitized, white-washed, school-sanctioned version of Europe now, then she has a much better chance of convincing her parents to let her take a gap year before college and do it right.

He doesn’t let Tony pay for his trip, though. Peter has months of untouched extra pay from the ‘internship’ and he’d even been given an advance when the beta-testing for his adhesive had gone remarkably well. Besides, they haven’t really talked. Peter’s back to doing a lot of solo lab work in addition to training with Natasha, or swimming with Rhodey.

He doesn’t _need_ Tony. (But he wants him.)

Peter convinces May to let him go primarily by pointing out that he wants to spend time with Ned and give the stuff with the Avengers a little bit of a rest so he can just be a kid.

He also makes sure that he sets up a way to keep up his therapy, at both Dr. Rosalind’s and May’s insistence. He and Ros spend almost an entire session making the arrangements.

The doc does move his slot an hour later, though, and she’s very apologetic and forthcoming as she grips Peter’s forearm and hurriedly explains that she has a client, Mr. Quentin Beck, that she has to see during Peter’s normal hour. It’s the same one who’d called in an emergency that day that Peter had had to wait, the day Desiré had told him about May and Pepper.

He’s been… trying not to think about that too hard. Especially since he’ll be out of the apartment for almost the entire length of what he’s already overheard May calling her upcoming ‘wet, hot American summer’ and oh god, kill him now. He tells his therapist this in his session, and she just straight-up chuckles at him.

Anyway, Ros moving his timeslot works out perfectly, because of the time difference with Europe; what’s late afternoon for her will be evening for him, long after the study abroad program’s events end each day. He’s touched that she seems so upset about moving his slot, so invested in making him understand how much she cares about his progress. Her soothing music cuts in again from her computer, and she lets go of his arm to ask if he has everything else arranged for his trip.

“Sure do,” he says, relaxing. “The only thing I feel really bad about is missing Mr. Stark’s birthday.”

“Oh? I’m sorry, when is that again?” she asks.

“Well, officially, it’s May 29th,” Peter informs her. “But the truth is, he was born a week and a half early, on the 19th. Tony told me once that Howard started ‘editing’ him as soon as he came out of the womb. Plus, he says he’s not going to cop to a single day more than he has to, regarding his age, and that it’s a useful barometer for knowing who his true friends are, versus people that just look him up on Wikipedia.”

“I see,” Rosalind says. Her face flickers, and she asks, “Should you really be telling me then? Maybe he’d want you to be more close-mouthed around me.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Peter opines, shrugging. “I told Ned about it and we spent hours giggling over whether a Taurus-Gemini cusp could get with a Leo like me, even though we don’t believe in that stuff. It was still fun.”

“Cute,” she remarks, and her face calms behind her glasses. Her smile widens. “Time’s almost up, Peter. Any last words… for today’s session?”

He feels good today, and their talk has really helped, so Peter just answers, “Uhhh, can you help me figure out what to get Tony, you know, as a gift?”

The doctor offers him a handshake, and although her hand is a little cold and twitches in his grasp, Peter thinks it’s very kind of her to say, “I’ll take care of it.”

Well, good. That’s one less thing for him to worry about. It shouldn’t be a big deal anyway; Tony’s not his boyfriend or anything.

\---

The first country on their program is, predictably, the United Kingdom. He guesses Midtown wants them to be eased into the whole culture shock thing. Peter’s expecting the crowds at Heathrow when the group lands, but he’s unbothered; he feels at home here.

What he’s not expecting is to see Happy, waiting next to a handsome, dark-haired man who is not Mr. Stark. And boy, does Happy look pissed to have to be with them all summer.

“Hello, Midtowners!” the dark-haired man booms, voice charismatic and smile wide and white. “I’ll be your guide for the duration of the summer. This here is…” he trails off, glancing at Happy.

“ _Mister Hogan_ is fine, thank you,” Happy says, voice firm and eyes boring into Peter’s.

“Great!” Tall, Dark, and Handsome says, and continues his spiel, “Mr. Hogan will be here for extra security, and as I said, I’ll be guiding you through the history and the sights of Europe. I don’t like to be called Mister anything, not when you are all nearly adults, so you can all just call me Q.”

“Like… in _James Bond_ , that kind of ‘Q’?” Ned asks from Peter’s right, and Happy snorts.

“Sure, kid!” Q says, giving Ned a double thumbs up. “I’m a big movie buff, so that’s very flattering,” he adds kindly, as Ned makes an embarrassed noise that probably only Peter can hear. However, it’s Peter whose eyes Q catches as he continues.

“I used to be a Hollywood tour guide, and an effects designer before that, so if you ever want to talk pop culture or the movie business in addition to the science, technology, art, and history we’ll be studying, I’ll make time for you.”

Peter and Ned exchange grins as the group gets shuffled off to the shuttle that will take them to their lodging. This summer is gonna be lit.

\---

Happy follows Peter into his room. He’d been bunked as a single instead of a double because the slot was supposed to be MJ’s originally and Midtown wouldn’t let him bunk with Gwen Stacy. He hadn’t had the heart to try and explain Michelle was far more interested in the blonde than he was.

Happy plunks a familiar silver case down on the table in the room.

“So let me get this straight, kid. You fly halfway across the world, where you’re going to have little to no backup, and you don’t bring the suit? Talk me through that.”

Peter flushes.

“I didn’t want TSA to flag it, okay? It’s technically a weapon,” he explains.

Happy sighs, gesturing at the case. “How do you think we brought it into Germany, last time? The case is shielded from the x-ray machine and it says Stark Industries on the top… TSA has standing orders to pass it through, after checking the serial number through the online verification system.”

(Oh.)

“I didn’t know,” Peter says, voice flat.

“Yeah, well, you would have if you’d told Tony you were leaving. He would have arranged for early boarding and a case capable of incognito mode, even, so your little classmates wouldn’t be so suspicious.”

Peter looks at the floor. He swallows because he knows his voice is about to come out small, but he wants it to at least sound steady.

“I didn’t mean to make you miss summer with your girlfriend. I’m sorry,” he says.

Happy scrutinizes him for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is gentler. “He misses you, you know? I don’t know what happened, but it’s the boss’s birthday in a few days and all he wants from you is to know you’re okay and having fun. Send him one of your god-forsaken selfies or do one of those video log things you’re always messing around with.”

“Mmmkay,” Peter mumbles, still unable to look at the man.

Happy sits down heavily, in the other chair in the room, and positions himself in a way that forces Peter to make eye contact.

“Next time, tell him you’re leaving. Tony always finds out anyway, and he would have kitted you out with a whole wardrobe for Europe, especially since you didn’t let him pay for the trip.”

(I don’t care about that.)

Peter nods, and says, “Okay. I’m gonna Skype Aunt May now. Are you next door again?”

Happy huffs, and says, “No way, not after last time. It’s the only way Tony convinced me to do this trip. I’m as far away as possible, and you’re next door to the guide, so all the little students stay in-between the adults. And Tony pulled strings to have you bunked with a connecting door to this Q person, so no switching rooms, okay? Tony vetted him personally; apparently he learned 3D design and modeling in the military before he started his special effects career, so if there’s an emergency, you grab the case and then go to him… wait to suit up until you’re sure the situation calls for it.”

“Because of the Accords?” Peter confirms.

“Got it in one, kid,” the other man replies, getting up. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’Night, Happy.”

“Sweet dreams,” he replies, waving a hand over his shoulder as he leaves. Peter locks the door behind him.

\---

The words are prophetic. Peter is all keyed up, having jumped several time zones forward, so he takes some cough syrup to help him get to sleep, and.

He dreams:

Peter’s underwater, swimming around in the big central fish tank at the London Aquarium. He goes this way and that, trying to figure out which way is up and which way is down. It’s long minutes before he realizes there’s no need for him to breathe air. With his hand on the side of his neck, like he’s checking his carotid pulse, he feels gills and calms down.

He’s not gonna drown, at least, but his eyes sting all the same.

All the fish suddenly swarm, gathering on one point at the opposite end of the tank, and Peter follows. (Feeding time.)

Instead of lettuce or kelp or krill, dark blue macarons are plummeting through the water like the world’s fanciest fish pellets. Peter catches one, but realizes he doesn’t quite know how to eat underwater without swallowing a bellyful of brine. He makes for the air that must be above where the cookies are falling, and just before he breeches the surface, a strong forearm plunges into the water and a hand grasps his hand.

The man helps Peter onto a metal catwalk above the tank, and Peter realizes he’s been naked this whole time. Apparently he’d been doing his impression of the baby from Nirvana’s Nevermind album cover and he’s deeply embarrassed because the water was cold, okay? He doesn’t want Mr. Stark to see him experiencing shrinkage.

But it’s not Mr. Stark who saved him, and it’s certainly not Mr. Stark who is pressing his hands to the sides of Peter’s damp neck, the gills melting back into his skin under warm palms.

Tony wouldn’t be caught dead in those khakis, and he certainly wouldn’t be kissing him, blowing air into his lungs, pressing Peter’s back into the metal grate of the walkway so hard he’s sure the pattern will be bruised into him for a few hours at least.

Tony Stark wouldn’t be frotting against Peter like this, swallowing Peter’s moans, and-

Peter wakes up far too early, and far too wet.

Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can view the moodboard for this fic, made for me by the lovely starkerdayss, [here](https://starkerdayss.tumblr.com/post/181984385187/starker-moodboard-dreams-and-water-hey-guys-so), and the vastly inferior one I made is way back in the prologue, now.


	12. I'd do whatever I could do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter loses perspective, and a friend. (This chapter got split into two parts.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song for this chapter is: Marching Bands of Manhattan - Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> F̧̕ơ̛͝ļ̶̴l̶͢͟o͘͘͢w̷̵̕͞ along with the playlist: https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM_7TZXGFut4v-ijn9hYBltM

The first day in London, the whole troupe of teenagers gets led around the tourist destinations, and they take a vote (“for democracy’s sake!”) and end up spending most of the day near the London Eye. Ned, in particular, takes about a thousand photos, and Peter tries to keep his energy level up. It’s difficult, though, because they don’t stop for food as often as Peter normally would at home, with his metabolism.

He remembers what Happy told him, though, about Mr. Stark. About how he just wants to know Peter’s okay.

Peter takes a photo of him and Ned with ice cream cones piled high with blue ice cream. It’s candid because he doesn’t have time to pose before the thing starts melting down his wrist.

He sends it with the caption, ‘I think I need more calories in this timezone.’

Ned laughs at him because, as he puts it, “That’s the gayest way of saying, ‘I miss you,’ that I’ve ever heard.”

“Only because you already know, asshole!”

(Whatever.)

The response is… not what Peter would have expected.

**Hey, pace yourself, kid. You**

**know what they say about too**

**much of a good thing.**

Oh. So, they’re gonna talk about it, then?

He texts back:

**It’s just ice cream. It’s not going**

**to do me irreparable harm. Or is**

**it the ice cream that you meant?**

And, yeah, maybe that’s enough for now.

He zips his phone back into the pocket of his tourist-y shorts and focuses on spending the rest of the day with Ned. Peter even tries to be nice to Flash and chat up Gwen Stacy and Betty Brant a bit, since MJ isn’t there to pull the girls into the conversation like usual. It’s fun in the way doing things you normally wouldn’t is fun, especially in the summertime, when routine melts away -- disintegrates -- like so much blue ice cream.

He can’t even tell what flavor it was supposed to be.

\---

That evening, when everyone is resting their tired feet and nursing their sunburns, Peter thinks long and hard about what he’s going to do. He’s used to thinking about his future. It’s impossible not to, as an orphan, because even with Aunt May and Uncle Ben around, it’s always hovered at the edge of his consciousness, that awareness that when he becomes an adult, there won’t be any parents there to catch him when he falls. Post-Ben, it had only gotten worse.

And it’s not even that he’s afraid of falling, of failing. It’s not that he doesn’t believe that May would do her best to support him, through thick and thin, but just.

He thinks, in that molded-over, damp place in his mind, that she _shouldn’t have to._

(She’s not my real mom.)

It always came easily to him before; he’d planned on becoming some sort of scientist, though he has yet to narrow down an area of study. He would find someone who thought his nerdy science tees were punny and get a good job and help people and it would all be fine. It would all be _just fine_.

He hadn’t planned on ~~causing~~ witnessing an armed robbery. He hadn’t planned on getting bitten by the world’s most obvious metaphor for fate.

Seriously, did he have to be bitten by something that spun its own home to live in, something that laid eggs to birth its own supplanters? Would he really be the arachnid architect of his own demise?

(Yeah, probably. It’s that Parker luck.)

He’s pulled rudely from his spinning thoughts by the vibration of his phone on the desk, where it’s been plugged in to charge. The outlets are fucking weird here, by the way.

It’s a linked attachment, from Mr. Stark. He opens it and, blindly (trustingly), allows the custom app to install to the main root of his phone.

A messaging app pops open, once the little file is done doing its thing. It has a sleek, dark grey background theme that doesn’t hurt his eyes in this low light.

He minimizes it and texts back the normal way, just to be cautious.

**How can I be sure this is you, huh?**

**What if you’re a supervillain?**

**…**

**I’m not.**

**That’s exactly what a super**

**villain would say!**

**You tell Karen she’s pretty**

**every night before bed,**

**because, and I quote,**

**“AIs have feelings, too.”**

Yeah, okay. It’s Mr. Stark. He opens the messaging app to take a look around. It’s bare bones and it looks like it’s meant mostly for secure communications. Natasha’s contact is already programmed in, as well.

He sends another message to Tony, this time through the app, to ask what the software upgrade is meant for. He gets a reply back almost immediately, even though he knows Tony must be working on something at this early hour. Either that, or he’s messaging Peter over a dinner that’s not been touched.

**It’s to make sure you**

**can reach someone on**

**the team if things get**

**hairy. Relax about it.**

**Oh, okay. Thanks!**

Ah, that makes sense, he thinks. Peter is hopeful, though, that he’ll have a nice, peaceful European vacation.

As soon as he has that thought, there’s a knock at his door. It turns out to just be Flash and friends. Ned is, strangely, along for the ride. Somebody must have their phone on, because he can hear music, and it annoys him that they would be so loud in the hallway of the hotel like this. Peter, wanting to be polite and considerate, ushers everyone in.

“How’d you score a private room, champ?” Flash says and Peter cuts his eyes over to him. (Since when does Flash give him nicknames other than ‘Penis Parker’?)

“Uhhh, well MJ was supposed to come on the trip you know, but we switched at the last second.”

Betty Brant sits and nods along with his words. “Oh, I heard about that. She was supposed to be Gwen’s roomie.”

Ned makes himself comfortable as Flash starts in again, “Hmmm, maybe you should have roomed with Gwen, eh?” The other boy is rummaging in Peter’s mini fridge and it’s so uncool.

“Flash, stop that,” Peter says, and Ned backs him up.

“Yeah, Flash, not cool.”

Flash looks up and lets the door of the fridge swing shut. He’s holding a tiny glass bottle of what looks to be Perrier. (Pretentious…)

“Relax about it, Parker. We just need the bottle to play a little game.”

Peter feels his face freeze. “Yeah, that’s gonna have to be a no-”

But Flash has already cracked open the seal on the tiny bottle by the time Peter reaches for it. He grabs it from the other kid and it sloshes over his wrist, cold. Peter, quick, sucks the liquid off his own wrist before it can drip on the carpet; it tastes like cough syrup and when he looks up, the room is empty and that’s exactly what he’s holding. The room is silent and the power has gone out, it looks like. Peter can only see by the light of his cell phone, still open to the chat with Mr. Stark. His screen hasn’t even had a chance to time out and go dark yet, and MJ had bullied him into setting it to the most power-saving option, so it can’t have been more than 30 seconds.

What. The. Fuck.

\---

The next day, after a night of fitful dreams and nightmares of Flash leaning past him to kiss Ned, Peter is practically dead on his feet.

He tries to focus on the positive, on what they’re learning about the British Parliament. The day is more educational than yesterday, and they learn that Iceland, in fact, has one of the oldest forms of Parliament. His super-hearing picks up Gwen’s voice from across their little group, when she says, “I wish MJ was here to cut in about all the governing bodies of Ancient Africa.”

Yeah, Peter misses her, too.

He resolves to Skype her later, with Ned. Maybe MJ will have some ideas about what to get Mr. Stark for his birthday. Peter’s on a bit of a time crunch.

What do you get for the man who could buy and sell you, and everything you own, at the drop of a hat? (But wouldn’t, would never, god, what do you get the man that you-)

“Hey, Mr. Parker, you doing alright, champ?” their guide asks. “You look a little green around the gills, there.”

“Oh, what? No, I’m fine, Mr. Q, sir,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hah! Sir? What, do I look _old_ to you? Call me Q, everyone,” the dark-haired man says to the group at large, before continuing on with their tour.

Flash brushes roughly past his shoulder on the way by and Peter wants to scream. He’s just overloaded today. It’s all too much.

Instead of screaming, he practices pressing ‘ignore’ mentally on all the little exclamation marks he draws above the heads of the crowd, just like Dr. Rosalind taught him. Betty: ignore. Gwen: ignore. Weird kid with the fauxhawk: ignore. Flash? _Big_ ignore.

Dr. Ros would be proud of him, probably. He takes that as small comfort.

Their session is in a few days, and he’s sure it’ll be fine. He doesn’t really want to talk about Mr. Stark anymore, though. He wants to talk about  _him_ , himself, Peter Parker. It. It feels like maybe those two things shouldn’t always be so… married, when it comes to his therapy sessions.

He’s more than just his stupid, unattainable crush.

Because he and Ned were the only two to make it back to the rendezvous at the London Eye yesterday, completely on time and ready to go when Q said they ought to be ready, they get special privileges today. They’re allowed to split off from the group for lunch if they want, as long as they have their phones and make the rendezvous for the afternoon leg of their enrichment activities.

Peter very much wants to get away from Flash and company, so he drags Ned into one of the weird British pubs where they don’t care if teenagers sit around and order food right next to the beer taps. Ned orders fish and chips, but Peter feels his hunger like a ravenous, gnawing thing inside him so he gets a double-decker sandwich piled high with roast beef.

Ned watches in awe. Peter talks in between bites.

“So, how’s Mary Jane?”

“It’s just Jane, and she’s good! We Skyped last night; she’s working on getting her grades up and putting a portfolio together so she can maybe qualify for a transfer scholarship to Midtown next year. That would be lit. It’s nice to have someone to talk to though, regardless, who’s there for you,” Ned says, none too subtly.

“Hey! I have that. I have Ros.”

“She’s your therapist, Peter; that’s different. Besides, didn’t you say she’s been acting kind of off, lately?” Ned asks.

Peter shrugs, and replies, “I guess. Besides, back to your earlier point, I have Mr. Stark! We talk. I tell him things. It’s all very...” (Intimate.)

Ned smirks after he pops a french-fried potato into his mouth. “Codependent?” he supplies.

“Sod off, as they say here. Nobody likes you, Leeds.”

\---

Peter regrets saying that when their itinerary for the afternoon puts them at the Tower Bridge. It’s iconic, beautiful, and currently under attack by some kind of dark cloud demon that’s shooting lightning everywhere.

To make matters worse, the little group of students loses their tour guide in the panicked crowd. Bolts of lightning are peppering the ground around them, and when his senses warn him with just the tiniest bit of extra notice that three are headed this way, Peter has to think fast.

He only has two web-shooters and he hates himself for it. Peter’s mind works overtime, thoughts quicksilver-fast, to calculate angles and bank-shots and the potential use of a splitter pattern, but there’s no solution and his spidey senses are already stretching the moment too far-

He watches, a momentary bystander, as the lightning flickers past in extreme slow motion. (Why is it always the worst moments of his life that get slowed down?)

One web saves Gwen Stacy from falling to her death off the side of the bridge after she clumsily dodges the first lightning strike, moments after the other web-shooter slings a line and snatches Happy out of the path of a second bolt.

He can’t believe he just saved Happy over Ned, but it was the mature thing to do, the strategic thing to do; Happy has the skills and authority-level to help keep the rest of the group safe while Peter goes and fights that thing.

Peter falls to his knees regardless, hovering over where Ned lays twitching and smoking from being hit by the third bolt. He barely has a moment to touch Ned’s slack face before Flash and Betty, of all people, are shoving him out of the way so Flash can do chest compressions while the blonde girl tilts Ned’s head back to blow life into his lungs.

Flash jerks his head at the monster of the week and says, surreally, “Go get him, Spider-Man.”

\---

They leave London immediately. It’s a near thing, but Midtown agrees to let them remain in Europe as long as they move on to Paris and leave London behind, in case any other elemental monstrosities show up in the area. (Natasha messages him later to say that the still-operable, underground version of S.H.I.E.L.D. had something to do with that, and he’s grateful.)

Peter’s not sure he could handle going home and watching other people get hurt, knowing he was supposed to be there.

Regardless, the class’s lodgings are scattered around Paris since all their reservations are screwed up due to the itinerary change. It’s fine, because most of the other students have parents who are merely well off, neither poor nor super rich, and many of them take vacation time after the scare and come to chaperone the groups in the other hostels. Peter’s sure the smarter ones among them are there to try and convince their kids to give up the trip altogether, so they can go back home and circle the wagons.

Peter’s group is made up of kids like him with guardians that are either like May (who would be laughed off the premises if she mentioned vacation time at work) or like Flash’s parents who just buy his affection and certainly aren’t going to put their high-powered careers on hold to babysit their only son.

Peter, Betty, Gwen, the biracial blonde with the fauxhawk that he should really introduce himself to, Flash, and Harry Osborn all tumble into the gloomy hostel and get themselves situated. Q and Happy will continue to chaperone them while the rest of the class stays with their volunteer parent chaperones.

Flash follows Peter to his room and piles into the empty bed that should have been Ned’s; Peter’s hackles rise.

It makes Peter extremely angry and even though he recognizes that he’s more angry with himself for letting Ned get hurt than with Flash, he lashes out anyway. “What the hell, man?”

“Parker, chill! I just wanted to talk to you about being Spider-Man. I’m a big fan!”

Peter scrubs a hand through his hair, stressed. “Fine, Flash. Just try to understand? You hated me until today and I’m not exactly stoked to have my secret identity exposed.”

Flash mirrors his body language in response and it unlocks a deep sense of calm inside Peter. There’s soft music playing from next door and a chill rolling in from the open window.

“Hey Parker, it doesn’t have to be a big deal. I was just gonna ask what the word was on your little friend.”

Peter tilts his head at Flash for that one. The least he could do was call Ned by his name. It’s not like Flash doesn’t know it. “You mean Ned?”

Flash gives Peter a slow smile. “Yeah, Ned. Will he live? Or maybe he’ll have to go back stateside for treatment. And, with your cover being compromised, I guess you’ll be hearing from Tony Stark or Nick Fury shortly, either way.”

A shiver goes up Peter’s arm as he digs in his pocket for his cell. He doesn’t want to look dumb in front of Flash for not knowing who ‘Nick Fury’ is, so he intends to Google it.

A hand on Peter’s wrist stops him, and Flash rubs gently at his pulse point as he leans into Peter’s space. “You don’t have to worry, you know. I’m here for you, pal.”

The comfort is welcome. The comfort is fine. Peter appreciates this. This is okay.

He leans up and presses his lips to Flash’s, eyes closing, but the moment blinks past and then he hears his door opening. Peter’s eyes do the same.

Flash is standing near the door, now; he must have darted away from Peter in some kind of gay panic. “What’re you doing, dick wad?”

“Oh, uh,” Peter starts, puzzled and wide-eyed. “Nothing?”

Flash nods, and mumbles, “Well, anyway, I just wanted to say I hope Leeds is alright.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter forces out, feeling infinitely awkward.

Flash rubs at the back of his neck and beats a hasty retreat.

There are no search results for ‘Nick Fury’.


	13. I'd run away and hide with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter feels rotten to his molten core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for gaslighting, the death of an unnamed companion animal, angst, implied dream dubcon (not between main pairing)
> 
> I'm finally back on my bullshit and I'm so sorry it took so long. Here's a 9k word apology.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: San Francisco - Foxygen
> 
> F̧̕ơ̛͝ļ̶̴l̶͢͟o͘͘͢w̷̵̕͞ along with the playlist (now on Spotify!): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DthrZ8qQjQgEBSyu54Opb?si=yZV6z6tbT2CVIJ942GYeiw

Peter does the smart thing, for once, and calls for help. He doesn’t call Mr. Stark, though.

“What the fuck? I let you and Leeds go off on your own _one time_ , and he gets electrocuted by lightning, are you serious?” Michelle says, frank and incredulous. “And you waited to tell me this?”

“I tried to Skype you earlier, but you didn’t answer!” Peter informs her, agitated. He’s so sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. He rubs at his bleary eyes, before squinting at the screen.

MJ must clock his expression because she shrinks away from her webcam. It follows her regardless, the jury-rigged robotic arm linked to her ringlight performing adequate headtracking, considering it was cobbled together by her, Ned, and Peter in an afternoon. “What are you looking at?”

“Are you… wearing makeup?”

“So what if I am? Besides, we’re supposed to be talking about what’s wrong with _you_ , that you kissed Flash of all people, not _my_ choices.”

Peter allows that, but he’s still curious. Then it dawns on him. “Oh… you must have talked with Gwen, right? She was so scared, but I caught her. She seems to be alright now.”

MJ plays with one of her springy curls, pulling on it to twirl the length once, then letting it bounce back. “Yeah. I’m glad she’s alright,” she says, seeming sincere but also a little sad.

Peter decides to leave well enough alone. “I honestly didn’t mean to kiss Flash, not in a million years, I just felt… lost. And he was being weird. Kind.”

Michelle looks unimpressed, even through the screen. “Is that all it takes for you to lay one on someone? For them to be kind?”

Peter rolls with it, feeling a little caustic from holding so many feelings in at once. “Welp. You’d know if you’d ever tried it?”

That startles a little smile out of her and Peter returns it good-naturedly, if tiredly. “Touché,” she allows. “You look tired, Parker.”

“Yeah, and you look like you’re all dolled up for a hot date, but I thought we weren’t going there,” he says back. It’s not his fault if he’s been feeling ill. The Spider-Man strength cough syrup Dr. Ros arranged for him to be prescribed does nothing.

Michelle chews on her lip for a half second, and then visibly appears to decide on taking the high road. “Get some sleep. Call your aunt tomorrow, and maybe Pepper Potts, if you won’t talk to Stark.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Peter replies, full of faux-cheer. “Will do.”

“Damn straight you will,” she says, saluting, and then she hangs up.

Peter rolls over on his narrow mattress, bringing his laptop with him, and answers a few emails. He knows he won’t have much time tomorrow, as they have a packed day. He takes the opportunity to clear out tons of unread promotional crap, and some message board and fanfic notifications. He answers Ros’s email about potential birthday gifts for her to deliver to Mr. Stark for him, picking one at random. He’s too tired to care, not when Tony certainly doesn’t need ( _or want…_ ) anything personal from him.

He falls asleep after hitting ‘send’, with the laptop still open.

\---

Waking up is like coming alive. He feels better. He feels good. This is good.

(This is fine.)

The bed is wider -- the frame sturdy, intricate brass -- but the best part of this new bed, by far, is the dark-haired man sitting next to where Peter’s tucked in. (Safe.)

The older man looks over his ridiculous sunglasses at Peter, cataloging him, reaching out with the back of his hand for Peter’s forehead.

“You feeling okay, champ? Looks like you had a rough night.”

“Yeah, I feel fine, Mister- wait, where are we?” Peter manages over his yawn.

“San Francisco,” comes the answer, and Peter doesn’t even try to hide his confusion.

A hand smooths over his hair. Peter closes his eyes against the glint of a high-end watch in the mid-morning sun. “Remember when I bought you those rainbow _macarons_?”

“You- _you_ did?” he yawns again, trying to remember properly. His hair gets smoothed back again, so patiently. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I appreciated that; a show of support, you know. Really nice, given that we don’t even know each other, I mean, we _didn’t_ know each other that well-”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Anyway, I thought you’d like a little trip to San Francisco. Gay Mecca, and all that.”

“That’s really nice of you, sir. Have you been here lots of times?” Peter asks, perking up.

“Depends on your definition of ‘here’,” the other man says easily, eyes bright as he traces a thumb across Peter’s forehead. “But San Francisco is a special place; it’s not New York and it’s not Malibu. This is _my_ turf,” he adds, hand still possessive on Peter’s face.

“Yes, Mr. Q, sir.”

\---

In Paris, fear is a demon. It hangs on Peter’s back, riding low, claws in his throat.

He really, really hates that he took Mr. Stark’s recommendation and watched _As Above, So Below._

The catacombs are interesting, though. Peter loves seeing the history, the _proof_ of all that time, played out. As creepy as it is to see the piled-up bones of so many dead, there’s a different undercurrent to Peter’s feelings about the giant, underground tomb, as well, the more Q explains the history to them.

At least here, for all these people who have been dead for centuries and whose lives were barely recorded -- barely thought about even when they were still living -- there is proof that they lived at all. They were _real_.

It’s more real than Peter feels, sometimes.

 _It’s probably just homesickness_ , he thinks. Or, missing Ned, more likely. Peter tries not to worry, tries to enjoy his trip like he knows Ned would want him to, for both of them. And, it’s not like the shock was fatal or anything. Ned will be right as rain in a matter of weeks, with a cool story to tell.

It’s just that Peter didn’t really need more loss in his life, if he’s honest. (More guilt.)

As he has that thought, Peter rounds a corner, looking up to discover that he’s somehow gotten away from the tour group.

They can’t have gone far, though, because he can still hear Mr. Q’s charismatic voice echoing against the odd acoustics of the tunnels. With Peter’s enhanced hearing, though, it gives him too much feedback to accurately find his way by just that. It’s a bit like when someone speaks too loud into a shitty microphone, and it doesn’t help that Peter can still hear the sounds of Paris through several feet of rock and pipework above him.

Peter retraces his steps, dimly cognizant of how alone he is. It reminds him of scurrying through the subway tunnels, on his way to Baptiste.

( _Find me_.)

Peter whips around at the sound of a voice. Well, it’s more of a hiss than a voice, but he’s not gone full _Chamber of Secrets_ yet; it’s not a snakelike hiss. It sounds more like steam.

Glancing around again and seeing that this area of the catacombs is still deserted, Peter makes the executive decision of _fuck this_ and sticks his way to the ceiling. He makes his upside-down way back to what he thinks is the main branch of the catacombs.

It feels like it, at least, if he trusts his spider senses and their grip on the tiny, fissuring vibrations coming through the carved out ceiling of the tunnel. It must be.

( _Found you_.)

Peter hears the voice and the alarm bells in his head on the same breath, a breath which smells and tastes like acrid, sulphuric steam.

He takes it in too late and the world is suddenly _burning_. Paris is burning, and it’s doing it from the inside, out.

Peter has a wild-eyed moment to be glad he was on the ceiling and not the floor, because _the floor is lava_.

Also, the ceiling is cracked open like an egg, spilling both clean water and sewage down from broken pipes, as bones and dust and manhole covers and _oh god a dog_ spill down from the street into the burning chasm that’s bubbling up under Peter as quickly as he can web skyward.

He lands with a little haphazard flip in front of one half of the bisected street.

“Go, get back!” he shouts at a few terrified Parisians, who had been watching rows of cobblestones melt into the ground, behind him.

They don’t move, so Peter takes a running leap over their heads and slings a web backwards behind him as he keeps going, bringing them along for the ride with a little jerking motion.

It’s not the prettiest rescue he’s ever made, but road rash and whiplash are better than immolation, he figures.

Of course, that’s when the magma becomes a man.

Peter has _absolutely_ no idea what to do here; the streets are already going alternately gummy or crumbly, depending on the material, and the molten man in front of him is so, so, _so_ colossally above his pay grade.

He does the only thing that seems right; Peter webs his way to the top of a nearby office building, one of the taller ones in the area and one that he hopes has already been evacuated (seeing as it’s the weekend).

He intends to draw this monstrosity’s fire, as much as possible.

However, it seems distracted, and Peter’s about to try and make the long jump from his rooftop to another across the way, to get a better angle, when he hears it. The sound of thrusters.

Peter makes the jump, snagging an idiot journalist _and_ her cameraman along the way, suddenly calm and competent. If Tony is here, then it’s going to be okay.

He starts webbing cars out of the path of the distracted monster’s overflowing… legs?... content to do the scutwork and limit the number of accidental car bombs while Iron Man makes short work of whatever this thing is.

Once that’s done and the danger of explosions going off all around them is much less imminent, Peter plays Tarzan with a series of overly-ornate lamp posts, trying to get to Tony and help tie up any loose ends.

He’s caught, mid-swing, and dumped unceremoniously on the back of a glider, aerodynamically sheltered from the buffeting airstream by… a cape?

Who _the fuck_ is this guy?

\---

Tony does show up, hours later, because of course it takes time to get from New York to Paris, even at Mach 2.

(Peter’s feeling of stupidity is drowned out by his need to _tell someone_.)

“There was this eerie basilisk voice- and then BOOM, CRACK, the whole _ground_ went out like _that_ , and then ohmygodMr.Stark it was so scary and so sad, there was this dog-”

“Okay, alright. I’m here, just. Breathe,” he’s told. Mr. Stark takes him up in his arms, though, and Peter clenches his jaw and doesn’t tell him about the cracked ribs. They’re probably healed already anyway.

“That’s awesome, but you didn’t have to come all this way. I mean, it’s over now, this fishbowl guy took care of it, he was like _surfing_ in the air with this glider thing-”

Tony looks like he’s holding his words in, watching Peter speak with the kind of rapt attention that Peter honestly wishes he got more of ( _if you know what I mean,_ Peter thinks but doesn’t say) but that only lasts so long. “Well, obviously Fish-For-Brains didn’t do that good of a job since you’re _à l’hôpital_ , spiderling. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here quicker.”

“I’m _fine_. Anyway, don’t call him that, he saved my life although he wouldn’t talk to me after. Must be a lone wolf.”

“Yeah, or an asshole.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter reprimands, though he’s honestly just happy that Tony isn’t reprimanding _him_ , at this point.

Tony waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m the worst. Talk to your Aunt May, here,” he says abruptly, double-tapping his wristwatch to bring up a feed.

“Peter!” the hologram exclaims. “Oh my God!”

“I’m fine, Aunt May, I _promise_ \- oh. Hi, Ms. Potts!” Peter says, trying his best to project cheerfulness and not-injured-at-all-ness. He waves.

“Pepper is staying with your aunt while I’m here, dealing with you,” Mr. Stark says tightly. “You really shook us all up, you know.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Peter can’t help but point out.

“No one is saying it was, Peter-” Pepper starts to point out, but both Tony and Peter turn towards the hologram as if surprised to be intruded upon.

“I wasn’t- I didn’t _do_ anything,” Peter tries again. “I-”

Aunt May speaks up, “Okay, I know, honey. I believe you. Why don’t we Skype later, after Pep has translated some of the stuff from the doctors for me? You need to _rest_ ,” she adds pointedly, nodding in Tony’s direction.

Tony is looking at him though, with a prompting expression.

“Okay, alright. I love you, Aunt May. I’m fine, really. The medical report will probably barely show anything except shock, maybe. I swear.”

“I love you, too, honey. Get some rest,” she says tenderly, with her eyes taking all of him in, before she cuts the feed from her end.

Tony lets out a sigh, and starts disconnecting Peter’s wires.

“What are you doing?”

The older man stops and looks at him a little funny. “If you think I’m letting you stay in this godforsaken backwater another _minute_ -”

“Paris, you mean?”

“- then you have another thing coming-”

Peter does something he’s been scared to do, since their fight. He uses his full strength.

Tony drops Peter’s IV line for his hydration pack, hand going limp in Peter’s grasp.

“I’m going back to my hostel.”

Tony looks ready to fight. “ _No_ , we’re going back to _my jet_ , Happy’s probably already collected your things by now-”

“I don’t even know if the other kids are safe, Mr. Stark. Happy was with them.”

That makes Tony stop. He says, carefully and with a voice full of apology, “Everyone’s fine. I’m sorry, I should have led with that, huh? They were in a different part of the catacombs.”

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay. They’re probably back at the hostel, then. It’ll take more than a few hours for most of their parents to get here, though I’m pretty sure the Osborns have a jet, too.”

Tony pries his hand out of Peter’s grasp, and helps him up. “Alright, I get it, you want to go back to the hostel first. Fine. Then I’m taking you home before-”

Peter stops, not particularly anxious to see Tony’s reaction to his hospital clothes. He stands still, the backs of his thighs against the edge of the hospital bed, and prompts his mentor. “Before what, sir?”

Tony takes a clean step back, business-like, and hands him the bag with his clothes. “Before Fury gets his hooks in you,” Tony sighs. “We can talk about it on the way, come on.”

( _Fury_. Huh.)

\---

When they get back to where Peter is staying, it’s chaos.

“Peter! There you are, oh my god!” Q exclaims, coming over to them right away. “...And Mr. Tony Stark, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he tacks on deferentially.

“Likewise,” is all he gets in return, for an awkward beat, and then, “So, you lost my intern.”

“Tony!” Happy calls from across the room, dodging a crying Gwen and a stony-faced Flash. Flash looks like he’s trying not to wet himself in Iron Man’s presence, and like he has settled on absolute stoicism as his best strategy for achieving that.

Mr. Stark tilts his head, a (small) smile making its way to his face. “Oh, well, looks like _both_ the people who lost my intern are here.”

Happy raises a finger. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s not my fault he went gallivanting off-”

“I didn’t _gallivant_ , Happy, come on-”

“Hush, Peter, I’m just winding him up-”

“Mr. Stark?” Q cuts in. “May I ask what you’re doing here? I was under the impression that -- what was it? -- a dashing man in a space helmet had dealt with the elemental?”

Tony regards the tour guide steadily. “Yes. The… elemental has been dealt with. That doesn’t mean I’m not _perplexed_ as to why my intern was separated from his tour group?”

Q’s smile is full of teeth. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Parker had a work assignment to complete for you while on his school vacation trip. How unusual.”

Peter takes a step back from the chilly atmosphere, moving closer to Happy and Gwen and Flash.

“He doesn’t, but I take the safety of my best employees very seriously. Or did you not understand that when you were vetted for this trip, Major?”

Q looks surprised to be called out by what Peter presumes is his rank. Peter’s mouth twists unhappily, which Tony seems to notice.

He adds, “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, now. Everyone is safe and sound.” There’s a pause where the ‘ _no thanks to you_ ’ goes unsaid. “Peter, ready to go?”

“I’m not going.”

Tony turns to him. “Peter.”

“No.”

“Peter, it’s enough for now, okay? The jet is already ready to go. I’ll bring you- I’ll arrange for you to have vacation time enough to come here next summer, if you still want to do the whole Europe thing. If you ask me, it’s overdone, but-”

Happy quietly takes Gwen out of the room; she pats Peter on the shoulder as she walks by and he returns her watery smile. Flash looks like he’s been petrified, so Peter takes a step to his right to block him from Tony’s view. It puts him a little closer to Mr. Q.

Tony watches him do it, and that’s how Peter realizes the two men are waiting for his response.

“Oh, uh. That’s not your decision,” he pipes up.

“Your aunt agrees with me, especially because you’ve been sounding sick and out of it in your messages home to her,” Tony argues.

Peter watches Q watch this play out. He feels bad for being such a high-maintenance charge during this entire trip. “She didn’t seem that concerned to me, on the feed. I mean, yeah, she cares, but I’m _fine_ , as I keep saying, so-”

“What feed?” Q asks serenely. Tony ignores him and pulls a neatly-folded set of papers from his jacket pocket.

“She was concerned enough to sign the release form, Peter. Come on, what do you think I am? What part of-” his eyes cut over to the tour guide, “... elementals following you around Europe, do you not _get_?”

Q comes to his immediate defense, which Peter appreciates. "Mr. Stark, I can't release him to a non-family member if Peter doesn't want to go."

Tony is less than impressed, looks like. "I have the paperwork, you hack. End of conversation. Let's go. Peter. Now."

"I have no way of verifying that signature, sir. You're not on his guardian list and I haven't received word from Midtown. You certainly can't take Mr. Leeds in any case… and I know Mr. Parker would never leave without his dear friend, especially while he’s recovering."

“That’s right, I wouldn’t!” Peter says decisively.

Flash makes a tiny noise behind him and Peter shifts to check on him and make sure he’s not about to pass out; it’s been a stressful day for all of them.

As he does so, Mr. Q steps forward too, presumably for the same reason, and blocks Tony from Peter’s view. He can’t see Mr. Stark, but it’s clear he’s not happy with Peter’s little pronouncement; Peter’s sensitive hearing picks up a tiny growl coming from his direction.

It’s kind of stupidly hot.

“Okay, that’s _enough_ ,” is all the warning he gets before Mr. Stark brushes past the tour guide and snatches Peter away from Flash, leading him up the stairs in a hurry. They stop on the landing.

“Which one is your room?”

“Sir?”

“I _said_ \- wait, nevermind,” Tony grumbles, before he lets go of Peter and taps at his watch again, bringing up what looks like nothing so much as a super fancy projection of his email client.

He selects a folder named ‘Spiderling’ and scrolls through the first page of messages almost too fast for Peter to keep track of. He opens a message and its attachment, which blooms to life as a hologram of the hostel.

Mr. Stark turns to his right a titch, then hits the wall in frustration and turns to his left, orienting the projected map to reality. One of the rooms in the 3D map is lit up red, and that’s the one Mr. Stark unceremoniously manhandles him into.

Peter lands with a _thump_ to sit on his bed, while Tony stands there, stressed. He scrubs a hand through his hair and it makes Peter feel like a _problem_.

So, he talks. “Couldn’t you have just used your glasses? So I wouldn’t see what you were doing on your watch?”

“Couldn’t you have just told me which room was yours, hotshot?”

“I’ve been through a lot today, okay? You’re freaking me out.”

Tony gives him a long look. “ _I’m_ freaking _you_ out? Jesus, you millennials really are self-centered. You were almost barbecued! I was watching the news coverage in fucking French like a goddamned idiot who forgot he has a supercomputer on his wrist!”

“I’m Gen Z.”

“Don’t remind me! _Fuck_ -”

“Okay, listen, _I’m sorry_ -”

“Don’t. I. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go on this trip; I should have known that Fury-”

“What do you mean _let me go_ \- wait, what do you mean, _Fury?_ Who the fuck is-”

Tony sits heavily on the bed that would have been Ned’s. “Peter, I need you to understand something.”

Peter tries to breathe, tries to be calm and mature like he knows Tony wants him to be. “Okay.”

“I am not the leader of the Avengers. Even if the Avengers were still a thing, I wouldn’t be their leader. Do you understand what I mean?”

“What? I mean, I thought it used to be Captain America, but it _should_ have been-”

“Christ, I can’t take you talking about Rogers today. My fucking blood pressure. No, not him, either. Everyone has a boss.”

“Not you, though, I thought? I mean, besides Ms. Potts?” he asks.

Tony smiles a bit, and Peter feels vindicated. But he sobers quickly. “You have to understand, there are a lot of people who want something from you. Fury is a good guy. He’s not a villain, and if I’m ever not around, not able to help you when you need it, you can trust him to protect people. Just realize, that by ‘people’, Fury usually means civilians. You are not one.”

“Are you saying he’s dangerous, like, to me, personally?” Peter asks haltingly.

Tony presses his lips together, thinking. “I’m saying you need to be careful what you give away, of yourself. This Europe thing, I know, I get it, it was supposed to be your last hurrah as a normal teenager and a way to… a way to get away from me, I guess, but. Your secret identity is really taking a beating here, kiddo. Maybe it’s time to come home?”

Peter looks down at his hands, not sure what to say. “I wasn’t trying to get away from you.”

“Yes you were, you little liar,” Tony returns, allowing for no argument. He’s smiling again, though.

Peter looks away from that smile, out the window, at the little corner of old roof and sky that he can make out. “I really wanted to see Italy…” he tries.

Tony reminds him firmly, “It’s not going anywhere.”

Peter huffs. Denial’s not working, better try bargaining. “Just one more night…?”

“Absolutely not. Whatever these ‘elemental’ things are,” Tony starts in with the air quotes, face sour, “... they appear to be following you. We stay here, we’re putting everyone in this hostel, including your classmates, in danger.”

Peter bites his lip, though, deciding this is the hill to die on. He stands up, making himself taller than Tony like he learned watching _30 Rock_ , and makes his negotiation play.

“So take me somewhere nicer.”

\---

‘Somewhere nicer’ ends up being somewhere _a lot_ nicer. Peter tries not to feel out of place.

Only Tony Stark could get a room here on an hour’s notice. The staff seem to know him personally.

“ _Bonsoir_ , _Monsieur_ _Stark_ ,” the blonde with the telephone says, hanging it up abruptly, as they approach. She takes in the two of them, not batting an eye at Peter’s roughed up appearance or Tony’s clear impatience. “Your usual suite?”

Tony takes a healthy step back, and takes his hand off Peter’s shoulder. “Um, no.”

Peter stifles a giggle that he’s afraid might have come out a bit hysterical, if he’d allowed it to live anywhere other than his aching head.

They’re shown rather promptly to the elevator, and the ride up is awkward, mostly due to the attendant helping with their bags, which would have been more than manageable without him.

Peter looks at himself in the reflective surface of the doors, taking in -- for the first time, really -- exactly how worse for wear he appears.

Once the silent bellboy has departed, Peter breaks up the awkwardness with a question.

“So, you don’t think anything will follow us here?”

“Ah, no, I don’t think so,” Tony says. “This hotel is known for its… discretion.”

Peter is stopped by his tone. It’s low, shamed even. “Um, does that mean…?”

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

“No, I have a right to-”

Tony nudges him bodily, shoving Peter by the shoulder blade towards what he presumes is his room in the suite. “You do not. You do not have a right to know anything about my personal life.”

Tony gets him through the door of a room that Peter would normally be breathless over, due to its sheer beauty, but instead he drops his bag and turns, rallies with, “I _already_ know a ton of things about your personal life, sir.”

That gets a hum from the older man as he lets Peter square up to him. He seems unconcerned and the casual disregard is making Peter _sweat_. “Fine. That’s true. You do not have a right to know anything about my _sex life_ ,” Mr. Stark amends.

He steps back, across the threshold, shuts the door and locks it.

Peter lets him.

(Touché.)

\---

Fifteen minutes later, though, when Peter has washed his face and brushed his teeth, and changed into sweatpants, he texts the man next door.

**How the fuck did you**

**get a room that locks**

**from the outside?**

 

It only takes a few minutes for the reply to come, which isn’t long, but feels like it is.

 

**It’s amazing what**

**money can buy.**

And if it was anybody else, Peter would be creeped out. You don’t just lock someone in a bedroom, regardless of how beautiful it is, or whether or not it has its own ensuite, and balcony.

After a few minutes of marveling, Peter gets another reply.

 

**It’s technically locked between us, not**

**From the outside. It’s a pass-through door,**

**And you have a lock on your side as well.**

**As well as another door. Relax about it.**

Oh. Well. _Then why did you bother?_ Peter doesn’t type back. Mr. Stark was clearly wanting to throw him off guard. (Two can play at that game.)

Peter waits until he can’t hear Mr. Stark moving around in his own room, until it seems clear that Tony has either gone into a deep meditative state or is in bed.

Then, he crawls off the fucking balcony, and over to the next one.

He almost gives Mr. Stark a heart attack.

“I really need to make plain to you the state of my cardiovascular health.”

“I thought you said it was Happy whose EKG needed work?” Peter asks cheekily.

Tony almost-laughs. “I was doing that thing, where you talk about yourself while you’re talking about someone else. Jesus.”

It’s still really dark in the room; Tony must have been very surprised, if he hasn’t turned on the lamp yet. He’s not in bed, though. He was just sitting in the dark at the desk, when Peter came in.

Peter’s not sure how that makes him feel, other than guilty. “Is it really that bad? I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Which time? Now, or today in general?” Tony asks plainly.

“Both,” Peter answers truthfully.

“Ah.”

Peter hums, unsure what he came in here for.

“It’s not that bad, not really. I mean, cave surgery isn’t good for anyone. But I’m not gonna keel over any second, no matter how many stunts you pull. Okay?”

“So you’re saying I can do what I want. Got it,” he says, just for levity.

“ _No_.”

“So I _can’t_ do what I want? Ever? That doesn’t seem fair,” Peter continues, playing at willfully obtuse.

Tony turns on the lamp, and the room goes golden. “I suppose that depends on what you want, hmm?”

Peter’s mouth goes dry. “I set you up, sir. You were supposed to say, ‘Life’s not fair’. You know, like the ultimate dad saying.”

Tony sizes him up. “I have it on good authority -- yours -- that you don’t _want_ me to be the ultimate dad.”

(Oh, shit. They’re actually gonna talk about it.)

(Peter’s suddenly not sure that he wants to.)

It comes tumbling out of him, all the same. “I’m _so_ sorry, sir. That day, when you hit your head, I just. I was feeling all out of sorts, and I said some stuff that I really didn’t mean, and-”

“You meant it.”

Peter is _horrified_. He’s embarrassed, and not prepared for this, and-

Tony continues. “See, that feeling? The one you have right now? That’s what it feels like when someone pushes you. That’s what it feels like when someone doesn’t respect your emotional boundaries.”

The realization dawns, and with it, a righteous anger. “ _What?_ ”

Mr. Stark’s eyes are very dark. He seems intent on watching Peter understand, on _making_ him understand.

“Is this a fucking _Teaching Moment_?” Peter manages.

“ _Yes_. That’s exactly what this is because _I’m your teacher_. I’m your mentor. You have to understand why it’s not right for you to be pushing me like you do. It makes it really, really hard for me to be effective.”

“You knew I would come in here.”

“Of course I did! All I had to do was lock the door! If I’d left it unlocked, you’d be asleep by now. But, to you, ‘no’ means ‘yes’! That’s a problem, Peter.”

“So what, you used reverse psychology on me so I’d come in here and beg you to fuck me, is that it?! That’s _sick_.”

Tony stands up. “No, it’s a lesson. It’s a lesson that you need to learn, kid, because _it worked_.”

( _It only worked because_ _it was you that did it._ )

“How can you- you _can’t_ -”

“I can. I just did. That’s the problem,” Tony says, blowing out a huge breath as he steps back from the desk and pushes his chair in, shoving it forward. “You are _not_ the victim here. And the only reason for that is because I am not actually the twisted individual my twenties and thirties tried to make me into. _But I could have been_.”

Peter splutters, overwhelmed. This is bananas. “Listen, how can you go on and on about boundaries and then, just. You _manipulated_ me!”

“Lower your voice.”

“No!”

Tony steps up to him, into his space, and Peter takes a step back. The older man doesn’t take another step forward, but leaves it at that, looking victorious. Peter’s incensed by it. He inhales a quick breath.

“Listen. I’m not trying to scare you, Peter. You’re a good kid and I know this is a hard time for you and I know I’m not making it any easier. But hear me. ‘No’ means ‘no’, not ‘maybe later’. Not ‘when I change my mind’.”

(Will you? Change your mind?)

“I know that, Mr. Stark,” he says miserably, swallowing fire and bile. He’s being made out to be a monster.

“When I talk about boundaries that means yours and it means mine, too. Just because you’re the kid and I’m the adult doesn’t mean you’re not capable of a bunch of BS. Do I blame you? No. When I was a kid, I pulled all kinds of stunts. If someone were to hurt you, including me, would it be your fault? _No_. But that doesn’t mean you can just ignore all the good sense and intelligence I know is in that head of yours, okay?”

Peter breathes in through his nose. They’re very close, and he doesn’t want to cry. (Too late.)

Tony softens, just a bit. “Don’t take it as a rejection of you, sweetheart.”

His voice goes watery as he asks the obvious question. “Then what is it, exactly?”

Tony steps back, gives him space, so much in fact that after a tense moment, he just gives up and sits down on his bed, with Peter still at the window.

“Pete, it’s. Our dynamic. It’s not a choice between romantic or nothing. I don’t have to either love you like I loved Pepper or hate you. There is a healthy, mentorly middle ground and I… love you very much. So, so much, Peter. From that middle ground.”

"Well, sir, you're gonna have to bury me in that middle ground, because I can't-"

"Don't, Peter. That's not a joke."

"I can't just pretend! How am I supposed to deal with these adult feelings if no one will take me seriously?" Peter asks, and he means it as a sincere question. He really wants to know the answer.

(Just tell me what to do, sir, and I’ll do it. To fix this.)

"I am. I have been. But taking you seriously doesn't mean always giving you what you want,” Tony informs him softly.

“Clearly,” Peter says dryly. He’ll take any humor he can wring out of this.

Tony allows him that. It’s kind of him, Peter thinks. Fitting, too, since Peter learned the tactic from him. “Maybe you can give me something that I want, though?” Mr. Stark says.

Peter’s taken aback, and it must show.

“It is…,” Tony continues, checking his watch, “... officially my birthday, in this time zone.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees nervously. “Happy Birthday.”

Tony looks at the ceiling, seeming off-kilter. “Can you. I mean, I know what you’d rather. I do, I get it, you think I never had an unattainable crush? But, it’ll pass, and I know it seems like the biggest thing in your life, right now, but. Since Pepper, the biggest thing in my life is you, kid. And I’m telling you, I _just told you_ , just a minute ago, I said ‘I love you’ as a mentor and a friend and a teacher, and if you could just _hear that_ -”

(Oh, fuck. God, Peter is such an ass.)

“I love you too, oh my god. I’m sorry. I didn’t say it back-”

“No, I mean, you don’t have to do anything- or say anything- maybe we’re not there yet, but I’m really. I was really worried about you today and-”

Peter crosses the room in three strides, stops short of the bed out of respect to their conversation, and doesn’t touch Tony at all, except the very, very edge of his rolled up shirtsleeve. “We’re there. We’re so there, sir. I don’t care if it’s your birthday or not, I should have said.”

Tony looks back at him, tearing his attention away from what it was occupied with, which was looking at everything else in the room except Peter’s face. “Okay. Thank you, Peter.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies sincerely, feeling for the first time that evening that he’s done something right.

Tony searches his face, and Peter sees the moment the man starts to feel guilty for asking for just a sliver of consideration from Peter; he feels a little sick, wondering if he’d ever have considered Mr. Stark’s feelings on the matter if not for tonight. (Possibly not.)

He wonders how hard it must have been for Tony Stark to actually _ask_ for something. It’s sad that the thing he has to ask for, from Peter, was _restraint_.

It must show on his face, because Tony starts doing damage control. It’s what he’s good at. “Peter, it’s okay. I’m sorry, alright; it’s not on you to placate an old man. I just get so busy watching out for your mental health that I kind of forgot about mine until just then, but that’s not _your_ problem-”

“It could be,” says Peter, guilelessly. “ It could be my problem. I want to help. I always want to help.”

Peter stays stock still while Mr. Stark surveys him. “If I tell you that I’d really prefer that you go to bed and rest, will you?”

“Yes,” Peter promises, wanting that good feeling to continue. “If you rest, too, Tony. You can rest now, too.”

“Deal,” Tony says, smile flickering once more for what feels like Peter’s benefit. “I’m exhausted. Need my beauty sleep.”

Peter really wants to argue that point, but he doesn’t. “Good night,” he says instead, and turns towards the window.

“Good night, honey. And Peter?”

“Hmmm?”

“You can use the door.”

\---

Peter stumbles back into his own room, struck all over again by how beautiful it really is. He really hadn’t fully appreciated it, before.

(Seems that’s going around.)

Peter holds back tears, narrowly, and that agitates his mystery illness all over again, so he figures the best thing to do is to take some cough syrup and get some rest, like Mr. Stark wanted him to, no matter how hard it’s going to be to quiet his brain.

He’s upset, at first, because it’s been an emotionally taxing day. It’s not every day that your… boss (yup, he’s gonna go with ‘boss’) tells you he loves you for the first time, Peter reasons as he rolls over to his side.

It’s as he’s fighting to get comfortable that he realizes it’s not _really_ for the first time, though, is it?

It’s something he’s loathe to remember -- and it’s difficult besides -- but Peter can just conjure up the feeling of Tony holding tissue to Peter’s self-inflicted wounds, pleading, “Kid, please talk to me. We can fix this. I can talk May around, and Pepper’s surprised at what happened, sure, but she’s used to my shit. She’s had a lot worse. _Everyone loves you, come on_.”

(But maybe that doesn’t count? ‘Everyone loves you’ isn’t quite ‘ _I_ love you’.)

Other people had seemed to notice it, though, hadn’t they? With a chill, Peter recalls his torturer telling him coldly, “He must love you very much, _pétit pédé_ … I hope he finds your body. He might even get your corpse unbolted before the bombs go off…”

Peter shakes his head, not wanting to think about that, and figures that villains don’t count. But Pepper had seen it too, even then, he thinks. He doesn’t quite remember her exact words all these months later, but he knows she said something about the C4 not going off because Nat and Tony had loved him enough to go for broke for his rescue.

And what had Peter done but throw it back in his face? He has a flash of himself spewing venom, not just trying to kill the mockingbird, but root out its nest as well: “We talked about this, Mr. Stark, you can’t just throw money at people and call it love-”

All Tony had done was tell him again, had painted him a picture with the blood of his own past: “You think ever in my life, that I ever knew he loved me enough to fucking sass him the way you do me? To risk it? To push it?” he’d said, meaning his own father.

And then, finally with that all-important ‘I’: “This is how you know I love you…”

And then there was the letter. (And the conversation after the letter.) He said it again, then.

Peter had just barrelled on, pushing for more, for a clarification, for-

(A change of heart.)

He should have realized what a heart it was, that he had snagged for his own; Peter should never have wanted it to change.

\---

Peter falls into a fitful sleep, head filled with thoughts of the love he didn’t exactly prefer, no, not if he was still holding himself to some semblance of honesty, but the love he had, all the same.

He falls asleep in the City of Lights and wakes in the Cool Gray City of Love, the city by the Bay.

Peter enjoys the brass bed again, but he’s alone, and he notices the door in the white room for the first time. The atmosphere is one of convalescence. He feels healed. (This is good. This is fine.)

He still wants to get up, though. He wants more.

Mr. Q is in the next room, and ( _oh_ ) it’s another bedroom. The older man must have been sleeping. Peter is immediately put on the back foot, saying, “Oh, sir! I’m so sorry to disturb you. I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy.”

Q sits up, sheet slipping down to reveal his bare chest. “No, you shouldn’t have,” he agrees, and he sounds angry. “ _You do not have a right to know anything about my sex life_.”

Peter reels back against the door he doesn’t remember closing. “I wasn’t asking- I didn’t-”

“ _Yes you were, you little liar_ ,” Q insists, and Peter feels so ashamed. He’s not a monster and he doesn’t know why he’s acting like one, now.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he apologizes readily. “Is it really that bad? I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Is it really that bad…?” Mr. Q repeats, as if he can’t believe Peter’s gall. The red anger does seem to bleed out of him, dampening and turning to pink relief. “ _I suppose that depends on what you want, hmm_?”

He shifts, getting comfortable to wait out Peter’s answer.

“I-” Peter begins, nervously taking in what more is revealed of the older man’s body. It’s not much, but it’s enough to know the man is probably nude under the sheet. But, _oh_ , he’s distracted then by a necklace he hadn’t noticed before. It calls to him.

( _Find me_.)

Peter shakes himself and finds Q watching him. He finishes his thought, “I didn’t mean-”

“ _You meant it_ ,” Mr. Q intones. Peter is horrified, but then the older man softens. “Hey, it’s okay.” He toys with the necklace, which is a dull, sort of grey stone, unassuming, on a long chain. It looks and feels familiar.

“What is that?” Peter asks and moves closer to the bed to get a better look.

( _Found you_.)

"Peter, I'm sorry if I misled you,” Q says, instead of answering. “I know LA is an exciting town and you just want to be helpful, but there are a lot of creeps out there. Do you know how many children go missing or worse, are found murdered, in LA every year?"

Peter can’t help but argue that point as he comes closer. He’s so tired of being held back. "I know, okay, but I'm not a child-"

"You are, though,” the older man says softly. “You're just a boy, so innocent.”

“I’m old enough to know what I _want_ \- wait, I’m sorry. Did you say LA? I thought this was San Francisco?”

Q gives him that toothpaste commercial smile. (Pepperminty.)

“Well, it _was_ SF, where I grew up and went to drama school, but I know you have a taste for a high class lifestyle and anything to do with Tony Stark. I thought Malibu might be better, after all. I’m familiar enough with the general area to make it work.”

That makes Peter uncomfortable, for some reason. He likes nice things, but doesn’t want to be… high maintenance. ( _Bourgeois_ , MJ would say.)

Then again, he’s not the douchebag wearing a pointy, almost heart-shaped, shard of rock on a chain -- to bed, no less.

Q frowns and says, “You can touch it if you want to, if you’re not afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” says Peter, instantly. Peter steps forward and the other man scoots back, making Peter chase him. There’s an art to it. He puts his knee on the bed and the bed shakes.

No, actually, _he_ shakes.

Peter wakes up to Mr. Stark’s face; the older man is nudging him awake. “Pete?”

Peter turns his face in against the fluffy hotel pillow, gradually coming to understand that he was dreaming and now he’s awake and he really doesn’t like it. S’too early.

Fingers brush through his hair. “Peter, come on. Pepper is here; she and Rhodey brought us the Quinjet just to handle some paperwork stuff here -- Accords stuff -- so you and I could go home and see May faster. We can take the Quin -- you’ve never been in it, right? -- get a start on the day, beat the paparazzi, okay? You can sleep in New York, or on the jet itself.”

“No, don’t wanna… I’m so tired, Tony,” Peter mumbles, almost feeling hungover.

“I know it’s early, baby, but we gotta go soon. Tell you what, you can sleep in my bunk on the Quin; they’re each customized for different Avengers, you’ll like it. I’ll sit up and watch the airspace, maybe start designing you your own bunk for one day, huh? If you’re good and get up, like, now?”

Peter finally rolls back over, squinting against the sliver of light Tony’s let in from his room. “Compromise?”

Mr. Stark huffs disparagingly, but doesn’t pull his hand away, doesn’t withdraw or withhold the touch that’s keeping Peter anchored to the here and now and not-vomiting portions of reality. “Did you have a nightmare? You look like shit, kid.”

“No, really, compromise?” Peter manages, voice croaking. “It’s your birthday, go have fancy Parisian breakfast downstairs with your oldest friends. Gimme just an hour to sleep off this nausea. I’ll be up here the whole time.”

Tony gives him a long look. He seems to be taking in Peter’s wrecked appearance, which Peter is sure includes bedhead, bruising under the eyes, and probably some drool. “I’m not leaving you here alone-”

Peter starts to argue but his mentor holds up a quieting hand.

“But, yes, breakfast sounds good,” he continues. “And if a bit of privacy to wake up in the morning is one of your boundaries, then I respect that. I’ll leave the Iron Man armor here with you, to keep an eye on you.”

Peter’s eyes dart down to the older man’s chest, searching for the implant. _How’s that gonna work?_

Reading his mind, Tony lifts his shirt, grabbing the housing for the nano-suit and detaching it with a grimace. He puts it in Peter’s hand and- _whoa_ -

(Nanotech is heavy _as fuck_ , which makes sense, given the principle of mass conversion-)

“I didn’t think it could do that?” Peter says, awed.

“Well,” Tony start, rubbing his neck as his shirt drops back down, “... it wasn’t supposed to. After I, uh. After I bumped my head that day, the docs took another look and were gonna tighten up some of the stitches holding the nanobasket in place, only to find that the arrowhead kinda… absorbed into my body.”

“Um, _what_?” Peter asks. “I’m awake now, explain. You should have led with the wicked science and magic angle, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah. I guess so. So now the stone is inside my body and it acts as a magnet to hold that thing in place. And it still makes it weightless and keeps it concealed, like it was supposed to; I’m just not sure how I’m gonna get it back to T’Challa without digging around in my chest cavity.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Ew. But also, _awesome_.”

“Yeah, I’m hot shit,” says Tony, voice dry, “... now, you get some rest and this guy will keep you safe. I’ll be right downstairs with Pep and Rhodey, got it? I’ll save you some chocolate chip brioche.”

Peter gives him a hazy thumbs-up. “Sounds good.”

Peter thinks about it for a moment before he sets the nanobasket on the nightstand and taps it twice like he’s seen Tony do with all his gadgets.

Tony smiles and closes the door behind him as Iron Man forms from seemingly nothing.

Peter rests and when he wakes up, the bed is brass again. There’s a warm, male body next to him, and he mindlessly rocks himself into it, seeking comfort. His head doesn’t hurt, or anything, it’s just all. A lot.

“Hey, Pete,” Mr. Q says, helping Peter slot his hips more comfortably against him. “Do you need me, champ?”

“I do, I need you,” Peter confesses immediately. (This is good. This is fine.)

Mr. Q withdraws as quickly as he’d drawn Peter in, withholding his touch. “Actually, I dunno if we have time. _I know it’s early, baby, but we gotta go soon_.”

“Go? Where-”

“To work, silly? Scathing critiques of the police won’t write themselves, you know, and _I_ need _you_ to take pictures,” the older man explains, scrubbing his facial hair over Peter’s cheeks, making his skin pink.

All it really does, though, is cause Peter to hitch his hips more desperately against Mr. Q, who pulls back to look on impatiently. “Please,” Peter begs.

“You have no idea how immature you sound right now,” the other man drawls. “I understand your feelings and I'm flattered, but you haven't proven yourself to be mature enough for this yet."

The snide slight sparks molten magma in Peter’s veins, and it draws sluggish warmth through him with every heartbeat. It incites the obvious question in him, which comes bubbling out, "What can I do to prove myself, then?"

"You take people's pictures all the time, don't you? You're good; I can tell. But it's not really fair, is it? Don't you let anyone see and document you, in return? That’s selfish, Peter. You expect to have your boundaries respected while you trample all over everyone else’s, don’t you?"

“Just tell me what to do, sir, and I’ll do it. To fix this,” Peter replies fervently.

Q smiles that toothy grin. “Well, we can’t use _this_ ,” he says, pulling a vintage-looking camera from Peter’s grasp. “The Chronicle would have your guts for garters.”

Peter looks around for his phone, patting the bed around him and noticing absently that Q’s necklace is gone, replaced by dogtags. He’s gotta find it; StarkPhones have state-of-the-art cameras. Q produces the object for him, finding it lost among the sheets.

Peter enters the passcode quickly, instinctual, and pulls up the front-facing camera. He snaps a selfie, like he would with Ned.

Q says, “What about me?” and affects a little pout. Peter leans into the older man to get him in the frame, and tries again.

Q kisses him as the phone makes its faux-shutter noise. “ _Good boy_ ,” he says, and it’s in just the right tone of voice, just the right way that Peter’s always wanted to hear it. “What do you want for a reward?” he asks, making it clear that Peter can have whatever he likes.

This is all a bit much for Peter’s senses, though, so he says, simply, “A kiss. Just. I’m not trying to push, I just want a kiss, if that’s alright. Please.”

Q thumbs at the curve of Peter’s face, chuckling a little. “Such a sweet boy,” he breathes before he maneuvers Peter a bit, shifting more over Peter. He stops, though, and asks, “Why a kiss?”

Peter, honest to a fault, lets the truth about Baptiste fissure out of him, “Well. My last kiss -- which was also basically my first kiss -- didn’t go so well. I’d rather overwrite that with someone who isn’t out to totally mindfuck me.”

Q lets him finish speaking as a slow smile dawns, then covers Peter’s mouth with a… glowing?... hand, supernaturally strong.

“Tough luck there, then, kid.”

\---

When Peter finally makes his way down to breakfast, after a scalding shower, he feels, above all other things, guilt. How could he have dreamed something like that? How could he have wanted that? How could he have _asked_ for that?

Sure, he’s read some really fucked up stories over the years, or watched a movie only to get a sort of sick thrill when they start to break out the sexual violence, but only because it was taboo, only because it was something new in the bland, ultrarecycled media that was shoved down his throat. Everything he sees is designed to be titillating, he knows, designed to sell him some product or idea, and he doesn’t usually blame himself too much for the things his mind’s eye conjures up, afterwards. That’d be like blaming yourself for vomiting after a steady diet of poison.

But this. He can barely greet Commander Rhodes and Ms. Potts properly, and he numbly takes a small plate of brioche from Mr. Stark’s hand, before sitting down.

“Peter!” Ms. Potts greets him warmly, but something’s off about her tone. “Why don’t you greet our unexpected guest?”

Peter looks up to Mr. Stark’s stony face, first, and then notices the man seated opposite from him on the round table, between Happy and Rhodey.

It’s the man he was just dreaming about, but there’s nothing _autre_ about him; he’s just a normal guy.

Peter is flooded with a sense of deep shame, sure that it can be read on his face. Q has never been anything but nice to him.

(Neither has Mr. Stark, but look what sick shit you conjured up there, Parker.)

“Good morning, Mr. Q, sir! But, if you’re here, then who is with Gwen and Flash and-”

The man smiles tightly as Mr. Stark mutters, “That was my question as well.”

“As I told your employer, Mr. Parker, Miss Stacy and Mr. Thompson have both been picked up by their respective guardians, as have the rest of your classmates. It seems I am, once again, out of a perfectly good job.”

“What a tragedy,” Mr. Stark says, and Peter has never heard him so flip. “What did you say it was last time, when you were a prop master?”

“Computer assisted scenario drawing and audio effects designer, actually,” Q reminds him crisply. “They don’t teach you about _props_ in the military,” he explains, as if to a small child.

“That’s actually super interesting!” Peter says enthusiastically, laying it on a bit thick, still, because he can’t stop thinking about this man holding him down by the hips, while he screamed into a mystical gag.

Everyone at the table looks at him.

“Thank you, Peter. You’re very sweet. However, my job was downsized due to advancements in AI capability, pioneered by your boss here, no doubt, not that there are any hard feelings-”

“No, of _course_ not-” Tony continues his low-decibel tirade, though Pepper can obviously hear him, in addition to Peter, if her somewhat fixed smile is anything to go by.

“Why are you here, man?” Rhodey snaps, while Happy tries not to choke on his eggs Benedict.

Q inclines his head, acknowledging the validity of the question. Peter had been wondering that, himself. “Ah, it seems Peter received a package at the hostel; it arrived by Stark Industries special courier, with a serial number and everything! I didn’t want you to miss out on something so important, Peter, especially if it was something you were expecting?”

Peter’s puzzled, then starts after a split-second when he realizes what it must be. “I bet that’s from Ros, Mr. Stark. I asked her to help me wrangle a proper birthday gift for you and she must have sent it when she realized you and I would be together, today.”

Tony relaxes at that and his eyes go crinkly and mischievous rather than tense. “Oh, well then, Mr. Beck, give it over. Or should I say Major? Whatever. I’m the birthday boy, not you.”

Peter has the presence of mind to think, _Mr. Beck? Where have I heard that…_ -

Before the storm hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Pillowfort instead of Tumblr, now.
> 
> https://www.pillowfort.social/feyrelay/


	14. I tried to write your name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen. Peter lets them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: water/drowning, panic, crushing (anxiety and otherwise), more wacky dream shit, alcoholism
> 
> It's shorter than the last one, but it's here.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Rewind - Stereophonics
> 
> F̧̕ơ̛͝ļ̶̴l̶͢͟o͘͘͢w̷̵̕͞ along with the playlist (now on Spotify!): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DthrZ8qQjQgEBSyu54Opb?si=yZV6z6tbT2CVIJ942GYeiw

The water is like a _wall_ and the rest of everything -- the chairs, the tables, a thousand plates and knives and forks, the grasping _hands_ , and then (horribly) after a few minutes, the hands that are no longer grasping -- is like the corresponding firing squad to Peter’s senses. He imagines this is what being caught in a tidal wave must feel like, but they’re _inland_ , they were _inside_ , what the fuck-

Peter reaches out with every bit of screaming awareness to find Mr. Stark, who is without his suit, who ripped his only defense off his chest and put it in Peter’s hand an hour ago.

Peter calls on everything to find Tony, the civilian.

(He can’t find him, he can’t find him (find me), he can’t _lose_ him, they _can’t lose Tony_ -)

But the tsunami that’s been made of the Seine rises up to meet him heedless of his panic, inevitable, and Peter taps into that calm, arachnid corner of his mind, the one that is 0% Peter Parker and 100% Spider-Man. It’s hard without the mask, so so hard to get into that headspace, but he needs to help these people, superhero identity or not.

“Come on, Spider-Man,” he breathes, and wraps his legs around the column he’d been holding onto, to get his web-shooters on. He goes nowhere without them, these days, and he’s suddenly glad of that.

Then he lets go.

The current carries him nearly out of the building, but he snags at the wide archway of the door leading out to the terrace and wall-crawls above it, perched like a horseshoe hung for good luck. Upside down like this, he can see out to the spill of people and furniture and so, so much water that’s depositing it all out onto the street. He frowns.

 _If the plan was to cause maximum flooding, it wasn’t a very good one_ , he thinks.

Spider-Man doesn’t have time for such wonderings, though, and instead he gets to work snagging those struggling the most and slinging them safely out of the building. The column he’d clung to a moment ago is already crumbling, as are several others, and he’s worried about the high ceiling of the posh dining room coming down on all of their heads.

He sets up shop hanging upside down from the arched doorway and begins a sort of jackknifing web-slinging motion, snagging civilians away from the worst of the debris and trying to shoot stray shots at the columns that are still intact. He steadfastly ignores the way the water is bubbling in a sinister fashion near the center of the room.

Spider-Man even manages to get a bead on Happy and Pepper, who he can see have superficial injuries -- a slammed shoulder, a broken wrist -- but are safely in the hands of War Machine in his new nanotech set-up.

Iron Man will be here any moment, he knows. He _knows_.

His senses tingle a half-second later, and he’s not disappointed as the red-and-gold blur comes zipping through the archway beneath him with a huge rumble (found you) that makes several stones vibrate fully out of formation. As he does so, the bubbling in the water begins to rise into the shape of a man.

“Go!” Spider-Man instructs, seeing Iron Man hesitate in mid-air in front of him. “Me and Rhodey have got everyone else, just take care of that thing!” He has to shout because, without his mask, comms are a no-go.

Iron Man gives him another half-second -- as if he can’t look away from the sight of the Wallcrawler wearing Peter Parker’s skin and not the one the man had built for him -- and then obediently blasts off to deal with the elemental. His thrusters reverberate throughout the archway sheltering Spider-Man, or actually throughout the entirety of the load-bearing outer wall of the hotel, it feels like.

Then the wall comes down on him, bricking off the outside with his body as the mortar, and he’s Peter Parker again, and Peter Parker is drowning.

\---

It's a blessing that Peter lost his phone in the flood. He doesn't want to see the hashtags, or the photos. He doesn't want to see the Internet reacting to his identity being unveiled, and he _certainly_ doesn't want to have to reply to all the social media and press requests for access to Spider-Man, the hero.

Yeah, some hero he is, getting pinned down in the heat of battle and literally stealing the breath out of the lungs of a civilian to keep from drowning. To make matters worse, that civilian had only been there to deliver Peter's half-assed attempt at a birthday gift.

Peter can still, now, feel the tour guide's lips on his, just as they had been breathing life into him between trips to the surface, as Peter had struggled, panicking, to get out from under the structure collapsed on top of him.

He can still feel the sting of river water debris in his eyes just as it had been as he'd looked up, realizing Q should have been back by now, bringing him his next breath.

He can still feel Mr. Stark's heavy gaze on him like a touch, just as it has always been, as he'd taken Q's dogtags from his lifeless, asphyxiated body, and walked away, leaving him with the aftermath.

He’d run and run and webbed and run, slinging his way up to the top of the Eiffel Tower, just to look out over a city of people who all suddenly, irrevocably knew his name.

\---

The first thing that's done when they get back to New York is Peter and May are moved into the compound upstate, given Peter's sudden meteoric rise in profile. It’s the only choice.

It doesn’t help, and Peter doesn’t see Tony for days at a time. The older man busies himself with his injured family, with Happy and Pepper, who in turn busy themselves with the brewing security storm and PR nightmare that Peter represents.

Rhodey, mostly unhurt given the way his nanosuit is built into his bionic leg supports, busies himself with keeping Tony’s liver from failing.

Peter, for his part, focuses on trying to get more than a few hours’ sleep at a time, focuses on not dreaming about running up hill after hill, a wall of water following behind him. He focuses on not seeing Quentin Beck’s handsome face everywhere, on trying not to feel guilty for still flashing back to that heinous dream he’d had about him or for being the reason the genial man had been in the hotel at all.

Dr. Ros tries her best to help with all of that but it just makes Peter feel worse. Q had been one of her patients, too, it turned out, having turned to her because his travel-heavy lifestyle necessitated such flexibility. She and Peter talk about him in the way you talk about the dead, especially when you don’t really know them. Peter leaves her office each week, ears ringing with the sung praises of the deceased tour guide, and forgets to remember to ask about stopping his cough syrup.

Ros seems a bit under the weather herself, eyes red-rimmed and curly hair suddenly cut short.

It’s rough on everyone, Peter knows, but he can’t help the sick feeling he gets when -- a day short of one month on from Paris -- he walks into the compound’s kitchen in the middle of the night to see Tony staring down a tumbler full of not-water. He can smell its sting from here.

“I only drink vodka now, because I don’t like it. It sucks,” Tony says, like Peter should be praising him for his restraint. “S’not like champagne, or scotch, or- God, Peter, I’m trying, here.”

Peter checks his watch. Q's dogtags are heavy and cold on his bare chest. Tony doesn't even look up. It’s past midnight.

He walks over and dumps the clear liquid down the drain, before refilling the glass with water from the tap. He hands it to Tony without really looking at him. “Happy Father’s Day.”

After that, midnight snack forgotten, Peter sleeps and dreams and when he wakes up...

They don’t speak again for the rest of the day.

\---

The next day, a Monday, their lost property is finally returned to them. The hotel has, apparently, recovered the serial numbered case that held Tony’s birthday gift. Dr. Ros signs for it since Tony’s still blacked out, Pepper has gone to drop off May at work in the city, and Peter’s been having a hard time getting out of bed.

Hours later, Rhodey ferrying him in with a stern expression, Tony comes to Peter’s bedroom to talk about it. He looks like shit.

“Hey, Pete. I see you’ve got my gift there. Will you open it for me?”

“Open it yourself,” Peter dares, despondent. He stares at a point just above Mr. Stark’s shoulder.

Tony hesitates, then seems to clock Rhodey’s nod from the doorway. “I… don’t really like to be handed things,” he mutters, reaching out to Peter with an open palm. “I was burned once, when I was a kid. I wanted to cook with my mother instead of learning basic circuit soldering; I was four. Dad handed me a cast-iron pan she was using, when she looked away.”

It’s a testament to how little empathy Peter is capable of these days, that his stomach roils but that’s it.

“She had on oven mitts; he had on welding gloves. She snatched that pan from me so fast, I thought she would hit him with it.”

Peter does, however, take the hand from him, noticing for the first time that there’s a strip of skin, impossibly smooth, along the palm. It’s nestled between the heart and life lines, almost exactly, and stays hidden that way. Peter realizes Tony must have gotten his ruthless intelligence from somewhere.

He looks up, at last, and absently curls Tony’s fingers closed, hiding the burn. “No cucumber balm will help this one, huh?”

The older man’s voice is humorless, hoarse. “Don’t think so, sweetheart. But I still want to see what you got me. I’d just rather not- I took the case right from him in Paris and-”

“And everything went to shit? Yeah, I got it,” Peter says, trying to make this easier, if he can. He gives Commander Rhodes a long look. He stands firm.

Tony sighs, takes his hand back, and holds them up like he’s under arrest. He looks more like his old self when he’s sassing his friend, Peter thinks. “Come on, just give us a few minutes. I’ll let you take two drinks off my allowance.”

Peter doesn’t say, _You’ve been sticking to an allowance?_

“Be careful trading one vice for another, Tone,” the other man warns, but leaves without further fanfare.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘vice’ my ass- kid’s good for me-”

A shiver goes up Peter’s back. “So, do you want to see it or not?”

“I do,” Tony says sincerely, dropping the sassy act.

Peter opens the case and goes about taking the different components out. There are quite a few; it’s lucky all the high-level Stark cases are waterproof. Tony’s eyes regain some clarity as he seems to be attempting to make sense of the unfolding puzzle in front of him.

“It was supposed to be a project for us. I was working on it, uhm, while we weren’t talking, before I left for Europe. Once I had some distance, I realized there wasn’t really anything I could give you that you’d _want_ , except maybe my time and attention, you know, working together.”

But he needn’t have explained, because Tony’s already nodding even as Peter barely finishes speaking. “It’s a- this looks like a lens and this… to project? It’s a projector?”

Peter nods, but, “More than that, it records and creates a 3D image, and here-”

He goes for his laptop, plugging the brain of the device in so Tony can see the raw code. “Look, here, there’s coding for two modes: emergency and cinematic. Cinematic can build the image a little nicer, make it pretty, change the shadows, erase the grey hair,” Peter explains, ignoring Tony’s raised eyebrow. He barrels on, blushing, “Emergency mode uses less ‘brainpower’ so to speak, and just builds the raw 3D image, warts and all, in case there’s limited time or power or whatever. If you’re being held, it’ll give all the details to whoever is trying to find you.”

Tony doesn’t interrupt, but he wastes no time after Peter’s done, either. He incredulously asks, “In case _I’m_ being held? Who’s the one who -- recently I might add -- went and got themselves-”

Peter frowns. “I thought you’d understand. I mean, I know it was a long time ago, you probably have about a thousand different things in the suit for kidnappings after, well- but I thought. I just, I don’t want any of the things that have happened to me, to happen to you, you know?”

The older man looks at Peter like he can’t decide if he’s a genius or an idiot. Peter ducks his head, struggling to explain further, hoping Tony doesn’t decide he’s the latter. “...And I thought, you know, you always want to do speaking engagements and product pitches yourself but you never get a break, and this way you could do both, you know? With the cinematic mode, it’d be like you’re really there, looking your best, so-”

Tony interrupts him. “Nobody’s ever taken an interest in adding to the suits before. I get it, I do, sorry, it’s just a new thing for me; people usually don’t really care to think about how Iron Man works, as long as he shows up.” He picks up the lens component to inspect it, looking through it at Peter, as if he needs the proxy. “No one’s ever tried to give me _more time_ before, either.”

“The thing is, I’m not really a coder; I’m a chemist and kind-of a physicist, uhm, hands-on, you know? Ned’s the coder, really, and he helped, but mostly it was Karen, who called FRIDAY, I presume, so-”

“It’s still incredible, Peter. I can’t wait to work on it some more, with you,” Tony murmurs, voice too kind for Peter to take, just now.

“No, you don’t understand. I think, maybe, this is how the water monster found me. Because all three times, with the elementals, I was using some kind of proprietary tech. In London, I pressed on Karen’s earbud to record part of the lecture for MJ. In the catacombs, I was trying to find my way back to the group. And in Paris, you had just scanned your top-level access to the case, so I think-”

“You think FRIDAY’s code, upon which Karen is built, is how they kept finding you?”

Peter nods, and Tony swears. He continues, drawing out the corollary like Peter knew he would. “You understand that means it must be something controlling them, right? Because I doubt the Heat Miser and his two idiot brothers know how to hack-”

Peter nods again, and Tony clicks his tongue while looking off to the side, agitated. But that’s not all of it.

“The other problem,” Peter says quietly, “Is that there was supposed to be a pair of these, in this box. There were supposed to be two, the prototype and the model for us to actually work on, and now there’s only one.”

\---

They spend the next two weeks running scans for the prototype, having FRIDAY keep an eye out, but it bears no fruit. Whoever has Peter’s tech, they either haven’t used it at all, or they’re using it only in local mode, and not transmitting any messages, only storing them.

Also, Peter sleeps less and less. Well, he sleeps, but it’s not restful. Instead, he has vivid dreams, dreams where he can’t breathe either from being underwater or from having Q’s firm hand around his mouth and nose as he’s screwed into the mattress.

Then, one night, it’s a metal gauntlet instead of a hand, and the color keeps flickering from red to gold, and Peter wakes up determined to _make it stop_.

He promised Tony he’d accept his view of Peter as his protégé, and he intends to keep to that. The problem is, that means Peter does have to tell him about the dreams, because if anyone knows a thing or two about intrusive thoughts and odd, sexual impulses, it’d have to be Tony Stark, right? If the tapes are anything to go by?

The conversation, held in the lab after another round of checking FRIDAY’s scans, is suitably awkward. (How do you tell your mentor you’re having really weird dreams about them?)

"I guess... I guess I need to know exactly what you mean by 'weird' here?" is Tony’s first question. (Fair enough.)

"Oh, uh,” Peter starts. “I mean, in the dreams, sometimes Q, I mean, Mr. Beck, he's... not nice. And I feel so guilty because he died because of me and here I am thinking of him as a-" (Rapist. _The word you are looking for_ , he thinks, _is ‘rapist’_. But like, a hot one?)

Tony looks like the only thing getting him through this conversation is the fact that Peter’s genuinely come to him for help, without an agenda. "Do you mean 'not nice' as in... I mean. Is this more like what happened with the Vulture? Or more like what happened with the snot-nosed psycho Canadians?"

Peter shifts uncomfortably. "He kind of acts like you, like in an echo-y kind of way."

"Oh, well fuck him."

A pause. Peter rubs at the back of his neck, fingers catching on the chain of the dogtags.

"No, not like 'fuck him' but you know, fuck _that_ , Jesus Christ, kiddo-"

Peter finally leaves his neck alone, squaring his shoulders, not wanting to spell this out for Tony but knowing it's necessary, knowing he can trust him to help. "No, I mean. That's already happening, that's. The kind of dream they are, before they turn weird, uhm..."

Tony freezes.

Peter continues. "... But he's not. I mean, I know consent is. He just. He just doesn't care what I want."

Tony’s voice is very quiet. " _He_ doesn't care? Or... _I_ don't? In the dream." He sounds like he’s trying very hard to project the aura that he won’t be upset as long as Peter tells him the truth, but Peter knows him too well for that.

Peter rallies, not wanting to hurt Tony with this. Not like this. "Well, I mean. Neither of you do, right? And that's okay-"

Tony is pale, incredulous, "Of course it's not _okay_ , Jesus _fuck_ -"

But Peter really, really needs to explain his nebulous thinking here, needs to connect the nonlinear loose ends. "No, come on- I talked to Ros about the dreams and she said it’s not uncommon for people to be into- well, you know what I mean-"

"I really don't."

"I mean. Forget Q. If it's just me and you. We've been through this. You think you know what I want, and it's not appropriate, so you don't care. But you're... You're 'not caring' for my own good. You're disregarding my, my, my consent, but like. In a good way? Because it's not what you think I’m ready for and it’s not what you want, not how you see me? Right?"

Tony steadies himself, blowing out a breath. "I suppose you could... think of it that way."

"Right," Peter barrels on, needing him to understand, needing Tony to say it's okay. "So, like. Maybe this is just my brain latching onto that, onto the whole 'dismissing me' thing and making it feel good? Because sure, it's different, in the dream. He's disregarding my consent not because he thinks it's invalid but because he has no use for it, has no use for me, besides-"

"Okay, alright, kid. I get it, holy mother of-"

"So, I guess I know it's wrong but it feels similar enough to- I mean, it makes me sad in real life but at least the dream, at least _in_ the dream, I get to..."

Tony, glassy-eyed, finishes the sentence almost absently. "... At least you get to come?"

(Jesus, just come right out and fucking say it, why don’t you, Tony?)

Peter can feel himself going alternately red in some areas and pale in others, like a demented peppermint, but he grits his teeth against the casual truth of Tony's words. "I mean... yeah?"

The older man’s not looking at him, so after a beat, he continues. "I mean, I'm not trying to- I'm sorry, this is, I just. I'm just tired of feeling bad all the time."

It takes a moment, but Tony seems to replay their conversation in his head, and then he finally looks at Peter. It’s a short look, and then he looks at the liquor cabinet, then back again. "You don't need to feel... bad, Peter," he finally says haltingly.

Peter just regards him carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"No, really," Tony continues. "I mean. It's, uh, probably not the healthiest thing? But, to be honest, I'm just grateful if you're going to have these dubious fantasies, they're about someone who's not in your life anymore, versus... someone who is."

But Peter can't help it. He needs to hear it said more directly than that. "You're not mad? Or worried about me?" (You're not jealous? his traitorous mind jumps in.)

Tony sighs. He gives Peter a long look, like the kind you give someone who is traveling further and further away from you. He stands from his lab stool and goes over to the holo that has FRIDAY’s scan scrolling away. "I'm always worried about you," he murmurs, his back turned to Peter. His body language screams his need for distance, to Peter at least, and it does it so loud he can practically hear his spidey senses jangling in response.

But, like a yo-yo, he comes back to their workspace and gives Peter a careful hug, letting Peter control the pressure of it for as long as he can stand before backing away. "But I'm not mad. And it's nice that you... came to me. Trusted me, I mean, um. Yeah, I appreciate that. Your maturity. Good job, kid."

Peter smiles into a short bit of silence, pleased somewhere less fleeting than when he's just flirted in the past. Somewhere deeper.

Tony claps his hands. "So! Let's see what we can do about these dreams. I’ve told ‘em once and I’ll tell ‘em again; they need to leave you alone."

Peter considers that, remembering the night months ago. He’d burnt his hand, pretty much exactly where Tony’s burn is, now that he thinks on it. He’d had a sexy dream and gone to great lengths to hide it, and now here he is, telling Tony about a different one. (Times change.)

"I'm really proud of you for talking to me, kid, and for getting back to therapy. You gotta get back on the horse sometime."

"Horses are weird," Peter pipes up nonsensically, still lost in his thoughts.

"You know what I mean. I'll tell you a secret. I still can't stand spelunking or even the desert. Tried to go to Vegas on a road trip a couple of summers ago... Couldn't make the drive. Had to fly, and stay in the city the whole time, which, yeah they make easy to do, but-"

That gets his attention. "I get it, sir."

"Do you?"

Peter leans over the lab table, and fiddles with a spare soldering pen. "Do you know how many convenience store robberies I stop in a week?" he asks, almost idly.

Tony chuckles. "I do, actually. An average of 22."

" _Stalker._  That's not my point, though.” Peter stops, tries again. "My point is, I do things I'm afraid of all the time. Sometimes I still chicken out at the last second, but. My uncle Ben used to say it was okay to be afraid and okay to make mistakes, but to try not to repeat the same problem over and over again. If something scared you, he'd say, it was your job to figure out why, to figure out if it was worth it, if it was fear keeping you alive... Or keeping you down."

Tony’s eyes are interminably soft. "Smart man,” he murmurs, and Peter gets the sense that Tony’s talking about Peter himself, as well as Ben. “Smarter than me, it seems, which I've been told is saying something."

Peter makes a sour face at Tony, like he doesn't appreciate the self-deprecating humor when he's trying to be sincere.

"Look, the thing is. I am, I'm traumatized. I don't need fucking Doctor Ros to know that. My theory is I'm just no good around water, maybe it's a spider thing. But you know, it doesn't matter, because I live in Queens. Queens is my home, and Manhattan is yours, or I guess here by the river, now, and so water doesn't matter, you know? I'm not gonna let it keep me down."

"I always knew you were brave,” Tony intones, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not making Peter’s heart thump. “You're not telling me anything I don't know, Pete. And, if you need forgiveness for anything, for any perceived wrongdoing or shortcoming, I'll give that to you. You're forgiven."

Peter looks up at that, away from his absently scuffing shoes, his idle hands. "Same," he says lamely, overcome.

Tony shakes his head and gives him a little smile. "Four months ago, you were in trouble with your aunt and Pepper and I came to get you. You had hurt yourself. You ran from me, even though I wasn't even mad at you. A month ago, I was. I gotta be honest, I was, and I caught you red-handed in my hotel room with a literal "Gay Agenda" like you're Mike Huckabee's worst nightmare, and I gave you the guilt trip of a lifetime. And you stayed. You listened. You reacted with empathy. I know how brave you are."

Peter smiles too, pleased that the two separate, unspoken threads of conversation have come round to be joined together. “History repeating itself,” he says, suddenly cheered.

Tony gets closer and claps a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, but better, this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have said this earlier, but I have to credit The 100 (TV show) for some sections of Tony and Peter's dynamic. The characters don't match up that well, mostly because of ages and situation, but a huge part of this story is about these two not feeling good enough for each other, and being so willing to give forgiveness and understanding without being willing to receive it in return. 
> 
> I get that from Bellarke in that show, and have pinched the "If you need forgiveness..." line from them.


	15. In the rain, but the rain never came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They just can't stop trying to help each other. They can't stop hurting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I'm so sorry. It's been a crazy, drama-filled three weeks. I won't even get into it.
> 
> Just know that as soon as this goes up, I'm doing a final futz with 16 and then posting that too, then moving onto 17 ASAP. Trying to make it up to you guys.
> 
> The song for this chapter is: Metal Heart - Garbage
> 
> Follow along with the playlist (now on Spotify!): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0DthrZ8qQjQgEBSyu54Opb?si=yZV6z6tbT2CVIJ942GYeiw

It’s raining and the sky is grey.

Peter’s sad. He puts on a sad movie like an IV drip in the background. (Why shouldn't he wallow a bit? A man is _dead_ because of-)

"Oh, is this that flick Clint wouldn't shut up about?"

Peter looks away from the opening shots of _Call Me By Your Name_ to where Tony has just perched on the arm of the couch. He looks as unsure of his welcome as Peter feels. He does vaguely remember Tony saying he’d never heard of it.

“If you’ve never heard of it, then how do you recognize it?” Peter asks.

Tony does that thing with his jaw that Peter knows means he’s licking his teeth where Peter can’t see. Thinking. “I made sure FRIDAY had it for you, didn’t I, since you mentioned it?”

“I didn’t mention it, Clint did,” Peter reminds him petulantly. “Did you watch it?”

Tony’s mouth quirks and Peter wants to run. He’s embarrassed. “It’s not really my kind of thing, Peter. I mean, I understand that the guy is taller than the Empire State Building, but beyond that I don't really get it. I didn’t watch it."

"You don't have to get it. I'm watching it for me, not you," he says, sadness rapidly transmuting into irritation. Tony stands but Peter lifts a hand, doesn’t touch him, but Tony stops all the same. Peter licks his lips. "You can sit with me if you want." 

\---

Later, on the balcony, Peter sits with Tony while he smokes.

“I thought you didn’t smoke,” he says. 

“I don’t,” Tony replies, before they both realize their own plagiarism. They bust into twins bursts of laughter. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to-”

“No, I know,” interrupts Peter. “Me neither.”

The rain had stopped hours ago, but the smell remains in the air even as the sky starts to go dark with night. The chair underneath Peter is wet, but he doesn’t care.

Tony turns at the railing to look at him, exhaling a cloud.

“Don’t cast me as him. Don’t cast yourself, not as anything. You’re not a character in someone else’s fantasy, you’re a person. You should be able to be yourself, a kid,” Tony says suddenly.

Peter searches for the first stars, but they’re not out yet. May and Pepper are ensconced in the penthouse suite, but he’s not thinking about that.

“What makes you think I’ve cast you as this nebulous ‘him’. I presume you mean Oliver?”

Tony hums, taking a drag before he speaks.

"Is it because he's older? Sorry if I shouldn't say that, I'm not trying to make you feel bad, just. You have a type, s'all."

Peter scoffs. "You know. It's funny you should say I have a type, sir. Because honestly? I'm more interested in Elio. Surprise."

Tony sits down in the chair next to his before Peter can warn him about the state of the outdoor furniture. "The dark-haired, asshole prodigy? And this is a surprise... How?"

It’s a good comeback. Peter wants to kiss him. "You're the worst. My point was, it's not always about age."

Tony regards him steadily. "No, I guess it's not."

Peter asks if he can try the cigarette instead of asking for a kiss, wanting to shake himself for being so stupid. (Denial, anger, bargaining.)

“Not a chance, kid, cigarettes kill,” Tony tells him, faux-sternly.

“So does stress. Besides, I’ll be sixteen soon; I’m almost old enough.”

Tony’s mouth twists and he puts the cigarette out. “You know, I only smoke these things so I don’t do anything worse.”

“Like what?” Peter asks, even as he mourns his opportunity to try it. (Depression. Acceptance.)

“You know what.”

Peter knows. He means drinking of course, but he imagines the answer is something else. He says nothing.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Stressed,” Tony clarifies. He’s watching Peter.

Peter stands up, aware that his pants are damp from sitting on the wet chair, but whatever. He leans over the balcony railing, looks at the fall. “Can MJ and Ned come over before school starts? We only have a few weeks of summer left and I’d like a chance to hang out with them besides the stupid MoMa trip.”

“What MoMa trip?” May asks from the threshold to inside. They’d left the balcony door open to air out the house a bit, and to let in the fresh rain smell.

“It’s the day after my birthday, the Friday before school starts. A bunch of parents complained about the Europe trip getting cut short when the school had had them pay so far in advance. I guess this is their way of making up for it. Parents are invited.”

May’s face falls. “I won’t be able to make it. I have work. They’re already being so generous with the flex hours to help me deal with this godawful commute.”

Peter twists around to look at Tony, thinking he might volunteer; the older man must take it the wrong way because he stands up to head into the house. May precedes him and takes a seat at the breakfast bar. Peter follows.

“Why don’t we both change, and then I want to show you something. Ask Fri for directions to the isolation tank. May, have you seen Pep?”

May goes pink. “I think she’s taking a little rest.”

Tony’s grin is feral and Peter would rather be anywhere else. “Well, tell her I need her override code. Peter’s stressed, so I’m gonna give him his birthday present early.”

Peter grabs a glass of water and gulps it down as May appears to assess Tony. She’s quiet for a minute and all he hears is his swallows. “Should I be worried that you’re giving my nephew something you need Pepper’s approval for?”

Peter chokes on his drink. Tony’s eyes flick to him as it drips down his chin before he can wipe it away. He spreads his hands, looking back at May, and Peter’s skin buzzes with hyper-awareness. He wishes he didn’t have to feel and notice everything, all the time. 

“That’s up to you; you’re his parent. It’s a dip in the Epsom salt pool I had built. It’s for stress. I’m not getting in with him. Cool?”

May looks at Peter as he puts his glass in the sink. He gives her a little shrug and a thumb’s up. “I swim here all the time. Is Commander Rhodes joining?”

“If you want? I’ll call him,” Tony replies. “I’m sorry it’s too late in the day for Ned and MJ to come over like you wanted, but Rhodey loves you, kid. The whole team does. I could plan a birthday dinner for you, see who’s available? It’s probably best if Ned and MJ sit it out, but at least we can do something-”

“Oh, have you spoken to MJ?” May asks, even as Peter frowns. “Why can’t they come over?” he asks before a beat can safely pass. Tony draws a breath.

He answers May first. “Peter was wanting them to visit, here. Is that okay with you? I haven’t spoken to her, no. I don’t message any teenagers besides Peter, obviously. I’d go through him or Pepper or you to invite her and Ned. But I don’t know that it’s a good idea…”

“Why _not_ -”

“I don’t think Pepper wants them here at the compound either,” May cuts in. Peter can feel his eyebrows climb. “You may be turning sixteen but I still get to veto who you hang out with.”

Tony raises his hands. “Whoa, okay, I’m not saying they shouldn’t come here but maybe let’s wait until things are calmer? Although, obviously, it’s up to May and not me.”

Peter closes his eyes against that revelation ( _I have it on good authority -- yours -- that you don’t want me to be the ultimate dad_ ), going so far as to bend at the waist and press his forehead to the cool marble of the counter. He’s overheating all of a sudden. When he bites his tongue, he tastes blood and it’s boiling. 

Tony’s hand lands on his back, between the shoulder blades. “Come on, let’s go. We can come back to the topic of your friends.”

 _How generous of you,_  Peter thinks dryly. But he still ducks under Tony’s outstretched arm so the older man doesn’t have to pick up his hand for Peter to leave the room.

Tony’s still leaning outside his door when Peter comes back from changing into his swimwear.

“I thought you were going to change, too?” Peter asks and, daringly, he touches a hand to the edge of Tony’s back pocket on his jeans. Tony lets him for a moment, taking in his bare chest or maybe just Q’s dog tags which hang over it.

Tony goes for his phone, fingers brushing Peter’s carefully still ones. He presses the device into Peter’s hand decisively, forcing Peter to pull his hand back. “Call Rhodey. I think I’ll change after all.”

He turns away and Peter briefly closes his eyes, mortified. When he opens them again, Tony has turned back after only getting a few feet down the hallway and his gaze is roaming over Peter’s face. “Ah, so you _do_ know what you’re doing, and you _do_ know that it’s wrong. Well, that’s something.”

Peter is so tired of this conversation. “Yes, I understand. It, it won’t happen again.”

The older man does his ‘Tony face’ as Peter calls it, where he tilts his head, narrows his eyes, and shakes his head in a smooth series of movements. It generally means fond disbelief, in Peter’s admittedly limited experience. “Of course it will,” he says.

“What?”

“It’ll happen again. Don't just say you understand, kid, if you don't. Can you be mature about this or not? It's okay if the answer is 'not'. You're allowed to struggle or not be up to something. But don't make a promise you can't keep, alright?"

Peter covers his face with his hands.

A moment passes and then Tony’s hands are around his wrists, pulling Peter’s fingers away from hiding him. His spidey senses aren’t going off -- they never do around Tony -- but the hairs on his bare arms stand up regardless. Tony seems to be waiting on him to say something.

“I don’t know what any of that means,” he finally tries helplessly.

Tony drops his wrists, and Peter’s arms fall to his sides. “It means I was wrong, in Paris.”

Peter can’t breathe. He takes a step back. _What does that mean? Wrong about-_

“I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have tried to scare you. I shouldn’t have put the blame on you. I was trying to teach you a lesson, trying to help you learn to navigate the world a little more easily, a little more safely, but I went about it the wrong way. I’m sorry.”

Peter holds onto the chain around his neck, just for something to do with his hands. “You weren’t wrong, though. ‘No’ means ‘no’ and I needed to understand that.”

Tony nods, but then shakes his head again. “Of course, but I think you already did. You’re a good one. But I shouldn’t have been saying how you’re making things difficult for me… that’s. That’s something an old friend of my father’s used to say to me, that I made things difficult. But just because someone said it to me once doesn’t make it alright for me to say it to you.”

“I don’t want to be a problem,” Peter croaks, throat tight. It’s literally all he wants in the world, to just be good. To have others see him and know that he’s good. To have Tony see him.

“You’re not, you’re not, see that’s why I was in the wrong. I made it seem like you’re responsible for my feelings, and you’re not!” Tony scrubs a hand through his hair, seeming frustrated. Peter notices for the first time that it’s a bit greyer than when they first met. “You’re growing up to be a fine man, but that’s just it, you’re _growing_. You’re allowed to make mistakes and you’re allowed to flirt with people who are _just_ taboo enough to trip your trigger but still safe. It’s the circle of life. And if you feel safe enough for that with me, then I should be honored. It’s on me not to respond. I should emphasize _that_ ; I won’t respond. But, I also shouldn’t be telling you it’s your fault for not respecting my boundaries, not in a hotel room at midnight in Paris. I didn’t mean half of what I said. I was tired and scared of losing you to those monsters. I was being weak.”

The earnestness in Tony’s voice combines with Peter’s half-nakedness, his vulnerability. It hits him so, so hard. “I almost died,” he says suddenly, like a realization.

“I know, honey.”

Peter steps forward and puts his face in Tony’s sweater, throwing his arms around the older man’s back. Tony keeps his hands high on Peter’s shoulders, thumbing at Peter’s necklace soothingly.

Peter mumbles into the fabric, “I as good as killed him. I let him breathe for me and he drowned.”

“I know.”

“My fear, my need, it _killed_ him- I _liked_ him- it’s my _fault_ -”

Tony pulls away to hold Peter at arm's length. “No. No, no. You did what you had to do. I’m proud of you.”

Peter shakes his head. “How can I trust anything you say? Maybe you’re just trying to make me feel better. You just said you didn’t mean half of what you said, before.”

Tony appears to consider that one. “You don’t have to trust me,” he replies slowly, “... but feel free to ask Nat, or Wanda, hell. Ask Viz. He’s basically incapable of deceiving you.”

Peter looks down at his bare feet, wiggles his toes. Tony drops his hold on Peter’s shoulders.

“If you wanna ask Rogers, I’ll give you his number. Captain America never lies, isn’t that what they taught you in school?” Tony continues. Peter looks back up at that and notices his jaw tick, but Tony doesn’t say anything else.

Peter shakes his head, which he realizes he’s been doing a lot of, so he speaks up after. “That’s not necessary,” he says firmly. “But, I think I should ask: What parts did you not mean?”

“I already said. I shouldn’t have put the responsibility on you. That’s some _To Catch A Predator_ bullshit. Your… appeal, has nothing to do with how mature or immature you act. Any adult that tells you, a teenager, that they’re attracted to you because of your emotional maturity or your smarts, because they see you as an adult, or because _you_ are coming on to them, is lying. Don’t trust them. They want to hurt you, or, well. At the very least, they care less about hurting you than about what they want.”

Peter takes a few steps back and leans against the door to Ros’s office. “That movie really wasn’t for you, huh? I can’t believe you don’t get it.”

“ _I_ can’t believe _you_ don’t get it. I understand why you like it, I do. And we can go around and around about Europe being different, about the age of consent in Italy, and about who pursued whom. But I don’t care about any of that.”

Peter’s frustrated. “What do you care about then?” ( _I thought we had a good time today, together._ )

Tony sighs. “I care about the end. I care that he sat there and cried and cried.”

“That’s the point! That’s what love is. It hurts. I know I don’t have to tell you, of all people, that.”

“You think I don’t understand how the kid feels, fine, I know that. But. Remember, it was supposed to be the eighties. Maybe I know better than you think. Try and picture that kid now, if he was real. He’d be older than I am. Can you picture him as anything but sad?”

Peter gets that awful burning feeling in his throat that means, _oh,_  maybe he’s the one who’s wrong. He hates that feeling, so relatively rare and unexpected that he never built up much immunity. “Maybe they got back together. Maybe Oliver called off the engagement,” he reaches.

The way Tony looks at him then, mouth a thin but steady line of forgiveness, hurts. “Maybe,” he says, obviously not meaning it. He steps forward and thumbs at Peter’s hairline, putting a wave back in place before sliding his hand down, smoothing down Peter’s arm to his wrist. “I guess someone ought to have hope for these kinds of things, see the best in people. I got you for that.”

Peter shivers. Tony shakes himself then pulls them both into Peter’s room across the hall. “Christ, why don’t you change back? We’re obviously not going swimming tonight, it’ll have to be tomorrow. Good thing you didn’t call Rhodey, after all.”

“Don’t _do_ that, don’t change the subject-”

“Forgive me, but it’s getting late. I really don’t want to stand in the hallway and debate the merits of an independent film with a teenager while he stands there freezing his nipples off.”

Peter starts looking around for a T-shirt to put on, anything. It doesn’t even have to be clean.

“Do I need to buy you more clothes for your birthday?” Tony grouses. Peter continues searching. He doesn’t want to take something directly out of the dirty laundry; he wasn’t raised by wolves. He’ll settle for a forgotten hoodie or a pajama top even.

Peter sighs, going to the closet to see what’s floating around there. He’s barely unpacked. “No.”

When he turns back, Tony is stripping out of his sweater, pulling it over his head to reveal a T-shirt underneath. “Here,” he says shortly, handing it over.

“God, you had to make it weird, didn’t you?” Peter can’t help but ask, but he takes it anyway.

Tony seems surprised, then pleased. “Well, good. At least you know it’s weird. Ready for bed?”

“Yeah, uh, I’ll just-”

“Alright, good night,” Tony’s already saying, halfway to the open door. “Isolation pool tomorrow, okay? I’ll get Rhodes in on it; it helps his legs. Don’t sleep in your swim trunks.”

“Sounds good. Good night,” Peter replies, at a loss. He feels he missed a step. He thinks there’s something more he ought to have said. “Maybe we can watch something else tomorrow? You pick?”

The older man’s stopped in the doorway, hand on the light switch. “Deal.”

Peter’s left in darkness.

\---

They don’t though. Peter sleeps in. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, snuggled in Tony’s sweater.

By the time he gets up, it’s lunchtime and both May and Pepper are at work. He hangs out with Desiré for quite a while, still in his sweater and Hello Kitty pants, just trying to stay out of her way while the hard-working woman tells him about her online coursework.

“You’re gonna be an amazing journalist, D,” he tells her, hands wrapped around a mug of some of the hibiscus tea that he brewed for her. He’d been reluctant to try it -- it’s fucking pink -- but it’s delicious.

It’s summer but it’s been very cool for days, wind whipping off the Hudson and in through the open windows. Peter can’t take the smell of cleaning products without ventilation.

“I know I will! Thanks, though,” she says, working at a spot of stuck-on grime on the coffee table. She looks up and cracks a gentle grin. “I won’t be here to pick up after Mr. Robinson forever, you know.”

He sips his tea in acknowledgment but puts up a token protest all the same. “Don’t.”

“Well, I just did.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” he tells her. He remembers saying that to Tony, last night. “No, actually, you’re the best, forget everything I said,” he adds, beaming at her. She’s not Ned or MJ or even Gwen or Betty, but she’s certainly a friend, the closest person in age to him at the compound.

“I thought _I_ was the best,” comes snarking around the corner. Speak of the devil.

“Hmmm,” Peter hums, pulling his knees up on the couch to make more room. “I guess you could try to change my mind.”

It sounds flirtier than he meant it and Desiré swoops out of the way, picking up Peter’s mug as she goes. She shoots him the most hilarious look as she does so and it takes everything Peter has not to ask her to suffocate him.

“Well, that’s what I’m here to do,” Tony explains smoothly, ignoring Peter’s pique and settling on the sofa. “What do you want for your birthday? May said no car.”

“I can’t drive. And I don’t wanna learn,” Peter says, blinking owlishly. “Don’t start.”

“Transmission received.”

“Besides, I thought you did that pool thing?” Peter waves a hand in the general direction of where he thinks the flotation tank might be housed. Tony’s mouth twitches.

“If I’m honest, that was sort of Rhodey’s present, not yours. But I was hoping you might persuade him to give it a try like you did with the regular pool and his physical therapy.”

That warms him right up. Tony trusts him with his oldest friend, trusts Peter to be good. It’s a nice feeling, one he’s missed. It used to be that way all the time. Suddenly, Peter understands what it is he’s lost to his unattainable, problematic crush: pure, uncomplicated trust.

Maybe that’s why Tony’s fighting him so hard, in addition to the age thing. Maybe trust is hard to come by, even for the man who has everything. (Else. Everything _else_.)

Peter looks up. “I’ve just had a revelation.”

Tony nods faux-solemnly. “Revelations are the best,” he says easily, waiting. God, this man has the patience of a saint, Peter realizes. “You gonna clue me in?”

“No,” Peter decides, snuggling down into the couch and into Tony’s sweater, which he’s content to keep wearing. He wants to bury his face in it. (The literal wool over his eyes.)

“You’re really not gonna tell me, are you, kid?”

“Nope,” Peter replies crisply, plosive popping.

Tony regards him for a moment, then reiterates his earlier question. “So what do you want for your birthday?”

“To get some fucking sleep,” Peter says without thinking. Then, self-editing, he corrects to, “You know what I mean. World peace.”

“Okay, Gracie Lou Freebush.”

“Oh my god, _shut up_.”

Tony’s laughter booms like thunder, echoing after the lightning-quick flash of Peter’s smile. “I remember when you were so polite. ‘Mr. Stark’ this and ‘sir’ that.”

Peter sobers. He’s trying his hardest to do what Tony wants, to be what Tony wants. “Do you miss it?”

There’s a moment where the only sound is rain as it begins plinking delicately on the balcony and associated outdoor furniture.

“Not at all.”

\---

The next day, they don’t make it to the pool, again. Most of the day is taken up with the PR team. That, obviously, includes Pepper Potts and Peter feels… impotent.

“It’s been weeks, Peter. I’m so sorry, but I think the court of public opinion is about to call time on your recess.”

She’s not wrong, Peter knows. He imagines she rarely is, which is probably why she and Mr. Stark hadn’t worked out, he finds himself thinking rather uncharitably. He doesn’t _want_ to make a statement on being identified as Spider-Man.

Tony speaks for him. “Jesus, Pep, if he doesn’t want to come out, he doesn’t have to. Keep pushing the grief angle, tell ‘em no comment while he mourns the tour guide and helps his friend recuperate.”

“It’s not an angle-”

Tony looks stricken. “No, of course not, you said you liked him- I didn’t mean-”

“Oh, but _you_ didn’t like him, did you-”

Tony puts up a time out sign, making a ‘T’ with his hands. “My motivations should not be in question here,” he says flatly, even as Pepper clears her throat and May takes Peter’s hand.

He hates it. He hates that she has to be there, that he’s not allowed to speak for himself not only without a guardian present, but without a whole team of Tony’s people to decide what he can and can’t say. He hates that May is supposed to be in his corner, but that -- current hand-holding aside -- she’s spent most of the meeting eyeing the silk blouse Pepper has on. Peter has tried everything he can not to notice how Pepper’s bra isn’t quite enough to stand-up to the frigid temperature of the meeting room. He’s tried everything to notice how Tony isn’t looking, either.

Bisexuality is a bitch. And speaking of which…

“We also need to assess if there’s anything, um, else,” Pepper says delicately. Peter gets the sense that she doesn’t usually bother with delicacy in meetings. It dawns on him how kind she’s trying to be, even if it rankles all the same.

Tony doesn’t see it that way. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Pepper is unruffled, and she ignores Tony in favor of pulling on a fancy blazer-styled cardigan suit separate thing that Peter would honestly wear himself right now. He’s freezing in his T-shirt. “It means, and this is a question for _Peter,_  not you. Let me maintain my plausible deniability, Tony. But, Peter, is there anything that the media might try to dig up on you? Any skeletons in the closet?”

(Just Ben’s.)

“I don’t. I mean. Have you heard anything?”

He hates how it sounds. It sounds like a _kid,_  like a literal child trying to ascertain how much trouble he’s in before he starts telling on himself. Peter shivers. He’s glad _he’s_ not wearing a silk blouse.

“Fri, cool it with the A/C, it’s Siberian in here,” Tony intones.

“Yes, boss!” the AI chirps, even as Peter snorts. Tony’s eyes are already on him. Peter shrugs.

“Most people would have said ‘Arctic’,” Peter explains, wondering what about this situation reminds Tony of Siberia, in particular. If anything. He still doesn’t quite know what happened there.

“I’m not most people,” Tony returns, but Peter waves that away. Like Mr. Stark’s ego needs any help.

“To answer your question,” Pepper interrupts, voice pointed, “... we haven’t heard anything yet, but we also have been putting out statements regularly, to the effect of ‘Please allow Mr. Parker to deal with the tragedy of the lives lost and people injured in the Elemental Attacks by respecting his privacy at this difficult time’. No one’s been assholish enough to run a counter story, _but_ that doesn’t mean they’re not already written. They’re waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass or for us to make the first statement.”

“Let me guess,” Peter hazards, “... at this point, it hardly matters what we say. If we don’t say anything, people are going to start deciding for themselves if they haven’t already.”

“That’s correct,” Pepper says. She and May share a look that Peter doesn’t understand. “It’s also why I don’t think Michelle in particular should be coming to the compound. Your friends could be being watched, and well. If you decide you want to make a statement disputing your status as Spider-Man, we can explain away you and Ned being here as targets of the elementals. Something for Stark Medical to study. But Michelle…”

Peter doesn’t like the way the older woman is saying his friend’s name at all. Tony catches his attention. “I know it’s tough, but you’d be devastated if someone you love got hurt because of this. I know you would. You’re a good man like that.”

The words fissure through him. Peter cracks wide open, cobblestones falling into the old bones buried underneath. _Skeletons,_  Pepper had asked for.

He holds on, dogged. He won’t let the impostor take over his mouth, his motivations. He won’t check out like he has so many times before.

(His trauma doesn’t make his head a hotel. It’s home, and should be treated as such.)

“Could I talk to Mr. Stark privately?” Peter asks. He makes sure his voice is very even and that he’s very present. This is a choice that he’s making, he convinces himself.

“Peter,” May starts, but it’s Pepper that shakes her head, he notices.

“I trust him,” he says firmly, just for good measure, just because it feels right.

The two women leave as Peter holds position, battle formation, spine straight but not too straight. The door of the meeting room closes and he sags. “I have to tell you something,” Peter tacks onto a sigh.

“Okayyyy,” Tony says slowly. “You know if it’s big, I’ll have to tell Pepper anyway, right?”

“I know. I just-”

“No, it’s okay. As long as you know.”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he does, he tries for casual. “I’m pretty much mostly gay. I notice women, but. I don’t know. Some kind of old school chivalry drilled into me by Ben makes me think that, with the superhero gig, I would have an awful time trying to stay married to one. You know?”

Tony outright fucking laughs at him. “Kid, you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know. That’s kind of seemed like all you want to talk about,” he explains, making a vague sort of gesture between them. The tips of Peter’s ears are red. “Also, what makes you think the trophy husband you’ll invariably end up with after this adhesive invention of yours takes off will fare any better?”

Peter huffs. He doesn’t appreciate being laughed at when he was being earnest, when he was making a highly personal self-disclosure. ( _You_ wouldn’t be just any trophy husband. You understand. You get me.)

“Fine. Fine. I was just saying, that might be the first thing Pepper’s team might want to deal with. I’ll need to come out, in the statement.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Peter asks, incredulous. Tony’s really starting to piss him off.

“What do _you_ mean, ‘What do you mean, ‘no’?’” Tony emphasizes.

He’s confused now. “...What?”

“Being ‘mostly gay’ as you’re electing to call it, which… bisexuality is a thing, but it’s up to you, whatever, but. Being mostly gay or even totally gay isn’t a thing you need to disclose. It’s not a skeleton. It’s not a crime. It’s _no one’s business,_ ” Tony impresses upon him. His eyes are dark and sad and Peter doesn’t even care. (Just keep saying nice things.)

“That’s not the way the world works, and you know it,” Peter stands firm. He wants to be taken seriously. It doesn’t matter that the protective note in Tony’s voice is chasing the chill from the room. Now is a time to be brave.

“Yeah, _of course I do._  That’s why Cap and Barnes aren’t out. On the lam? No problem, they’ve still got fans the world over, though they’re mostly concentrated here in the states. Barnes is fucking ex-HYDRA and I still saw a teddy bear with a foil arm the last time I was shopping. They come out, that all goes away. People would rather watch violence and murder and villainy than two guys kissing.”

Peter scrubs a hand through his hair, frustrated by Tony's ruthless pragmatism. He knows he’s right, is the thing. “I mean. I. I remember that exposé about Magneto and Xavier trying to speak for him, trying so hard to say he _was_ wrong, but. But not for _that_. I mean, it was all over school-”

“Exactly, kid. You really wanna be the first openly gay superhero, be my guest.”

Peter thinks about that. He really does. It hits home, that if he did this, it really _would_ be as if he were at Tony’s behest. None of this superhero business would be possible without Tony, much less being the first. The first. The ‘first’ was only possible because Tony hadn’t done it yet.

“It’s 2017…” he tries. “Maybe it’s time. Maybe I have to, to be. To be on the right side of this.”

His mentor swears, not hitting the table, no. Peter can’t remember the last time Tony actually hit something in front of him that wasn’t an actual threat. But Tony does push up and away from the table with unnecessary force, going for the coffee off to the side. He pours himself a cup and pauses. “You’re just like Steve sometimes,” he mutters. Peter looks away, arm hairs rising as Tony reaches into his suit jacket.

Just because the flask trips his spidey senses, doesn’t mean it’s a threat to him. He goes off over threats to Tony, too, now.

Tony’s not too far away. Peter can hear his fingernails on the metal. He needs to trim them, probably.

“Give me this,” Tony says low, from across the room. His mouth is in shadow, turned away, so they can both pretend that he’s not saying it. “Let me do it instead, and I’ll give you the flask.”

“You can’t,” Peter says helplessly. “It’d embarrass Ms. Potts. We’re barely six months out from your breakup. I don’t need a PR team to tell me that’s not a good look. Plus, with me joining the Avengers like this…”

“So don’t join,” Tony argues, building up steam. He tosses the flask from hand to hand. “Don’t join. Deny it all. I’ll think of something.”

“They have _video_ -”

“Deep fakes.”

“The suit, I. The web shooters. My face.”

Tony slams the metal container down on the solid wood table. It makes a sound that feels like a finger, too deep in your ear. “I’ll say I made another Vision. That Spider-Man is my creation, that we used your face to make him personable, to help the little guy. That I got the DNA when I acquired some of the failed Oscorp imprints, their bullshit 23&Me genetics database and that food allergy testing side hustle. Your parents worked there? Maybe they tested it on you?”

Peter’s head snaps up. “Don’t drag my family into this.”

“ _You_ are my-”

“Don’t. This is my choice. You don’t get to make me _feel bad._  I’m trying to be more mature. I’m trying to think of you, think of Ms. Potts, think of everyone, all the little boys and girls who need a hero that feels the same way they do. You don’t get to try to goad me into lying about who I am.”

Tony puts both palms flat on the table, leans in, suit jacket and dress shirt tight across the shoulders and chest due to his positioning. Peter feels warm all over, now. With a seething rage, mostly, at the unfairness of it all, but also other things.

“It would be so easy, though,” Tony all but whispers. “The rumors, for years. My bisexuality was mostly manufactured, it’s true. Something I started flaunting before I ever understood it, just to piss off my dad. But I could sell it. I’d sell it, for you, for us.”

God, Peter likes the sound of that, but. He’d had his revelation yesterday, and today was tomorrow already. Tony needs to trust him again, needs to let him make his own mistakes without feeling guilty about them just because of Peter’s ill-timed attraction. 

(Maybe Peter needs to let Tony make his own mistakes again, too.)

He pushes the flask back towards the older man, back across the negotiating table. “That’s on you,” he says pointedly. “I’m not in charge of your addiction. And who’s to say you won’t just go and get more, if I bargain my choice away now?”

“I wouldn’t. I mean, _yes,_  there’s more in the compound, but it’s more than a fair trade on my end, I could keep to it. There’s only so much of you, Peter, to go around. Alcohol might as well be water; you give too much away.”

“Poetic,” Peter snipes shortly. “But I’m doing this. And you might want to sit down for the next part.”

“Why?”

“It’s about Ben.”

\---

Tony, white-knuckled, propels Peter straight out of the conference room and across the compound to Ros’s door. He raps on it as Peter watches, mortified.

Ros answers, disheveled as she always is nowadays, notepad in hand. _I’M ON WITH A CLIENT,_  she’s written.

A chill goes along Peter’s frayed nerves as Tony shoves him forward into the doctor’s way, using Peter’s body as a shield so he can slip past her. Peter withdraws his hands from her shoulders, frowning.

Tony unplugs the power strip that services her desk, and the client’s charming, ubiquitously familiar voice, rambling about his former boss and abrupt firing, cuts off abruptly. “Talk to him.”

Ros is flabbergasted. “Mr. Stark, I-”

“Talk to him, now. You’ve been his therapist for months. He shouldn’t be trying to tell me that a routine armed robbery gone wrong is his fault. _Fix it_.”

And all Peter hears as Rosalind sputters is, _fix him._

Like he’s not trying hard enough. Like he’s still broken. It makes him angry.

“Maybe you’re the one who needs fixing,” he says. Tony looks at him like he’s just made a complete non sequitur.

“I need to call my client back…”

“Don’t you dare. I am not gonna let Peter continue-”

“You don’t _let_ me do anything,” Peter says dangerously. Rosalind takes several steps back, pressing a theatrical hand to her heart as Peter walks around a stock-still Mr. Stark to plug her power cord back in and shut the door. “Sit,” he commands, indicating the client chair he always uses. Peter stands. Ros pushes her rolling desk chair towards him with a foot while she goes to hover over her computer and phone. They’re going nuts on the reboot. Her screensaver is flickering; it’s a fish design.

There’s a tense moment where Peter wills himself to calm down.

“You know you don’t get to treat people like that, right?” he finally settles on. “We don’t belong to you.”

Tony’s eyes are hard, body locked up. Peter’s standing over him. He has a sudden flash of everything Tony’s ever said about Howard.

Peter sits, noting the claw marks on the wooden armrests of Ros’s chair. It refuels his anger. Tony’s been pushing her far too hard.

Softer, he says it again. He chooses different words. “Just because someone dominated you once, in order to do everything _but_ take care of you, doesn’t mean it’s okay for you to dominate people now, even if you mean well.”

It’s not so different from something Ros said to him once, about self-harm not really being any better than hurting other people, not in the long run, even though his intentions were pure. Peter turns to her to drive home the point, sure that she’ll agree with him.

She’s fast asleep, standing up, chin tucked down. She sways when Peter scoots over and touches her, then jerks awake. “Doctor Ros?”

“What?! Oh. Oh, _Peter._  I- Oh, you need to-”

Peter rounds on the man still silent in the other chair. “See? You can’t work people to the bone, no matter how much money you have!”

Mr. Stark starts, sour, “Is _that_ what you think of-”

But Ros is frantic, gasping. She’s peering at the computer when Peter turns back to her. “Go, you both. You have to- You have to get out of here, before. Before it comes back on and he calls back, _please._  We all need to-”

And Peter realizes how inappropriate this all is. He takes Tony’s elbow and jerks him out of the chair. Tony startles, trying to pull away. “I thought you wanted to talk it out, kid, huh? Wanted me to _sit,_  like a good boy?”

They get to the door, and Peter hisses, “And I thought you weren’t into forcing my hand, sir, forcing me into anything, but I guess that’s just when you’re talking about _fucking,_  isn’t it?”

Tony gasps like Peter physically hurt him, which he’s sure he didn’t. He’s got a tight grasp on his strength; it’s what makes it so hard to maintain a tight grip on anything else, if he’s honest.

Peter shoves Tony out the door, turning back to Ros to check on her. Her color has come down and she seems serene again. There’s music playing.

“Yes, sir. Sorry we got cut off. I’ll be right with you. They were just leaving.”

Peter gives her a thumb’s up and shuts the door behind him.


End file.
